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Oct

19

Ramblings, and that visit to the Middle East…

Category: Life, Reflections, My diary, Middle East | Leave a Comment

It’s been quite a while since last I’ve written anything. Not for the lack of things to discuss and ideas to delve into, but simply for the lack of interest. What good would it do me, if I were to sit and think about all of these things, but at the end of the day to still be absolutely impotent?

None, really. I would be running around in empty circles, giving myself unnecessary and unwanted headaches and a chronic indigestion.

Among other things, I spent a week in Jordan, which was a week too long in my opinion. I didn’t honestly want to go, but I never truly miss an opportunity to travel if I can manage, and as it stood, I had no reason to stay in Budapest for that week in the middle of August. Perhaps except for the obvious, being how August and the Middle East don’t usually spell a great combination. Or the more obvious, how the Middle East doesn’t usually spell a great idea.

Of course, aside from the drag it was to actually get there, there’s this curious thing that separates the Middle East from the rest of the world—it’s this odd mix between the utter lack of organization and order, with the sheer control the police and the military has over everything. The utter lack of respect to humans and the strange amounts of respect you receive if you’re thought to be a non-Arab foreigner. ..and of course, the ridiculous, overrated amounts of advertisements about tourism and the tourist-unfriendly nature of…everything in the country.

You land, and the moment you set a foot outside of the airplane, you find it hard to miss that there are several military personnel surrounding the airplane. I still fail to see why they were there, but they were. And as such, it was also difficult not to notice that whatever their duty was, they were distracted from it by anything remotely feminine that came within a 5-mile radius from them. But, sure, I mean…more security, no harm in that.

You get to the counter where you’re supposed to get your visa stamped. Well, fortunately for me, I do speak Arabic. Other people weren’t so fortunate, and the bunch of national security personnel carrying out the tasks were absolutely ignorant of any foreign language to the point where any foreigner that has been there before actually had an interpreter receive them at the airport. Well, that interpreter also scammed them for 50 more dollars than the visa required, but nobody cared, because one look at those faces generally convinced everybody that silence is a favourable solution to all problems there.

Once I was done with that, and after a fair share of ignoring the poor little airport, I made my way towards the baggage reclaim area. Where I wasn’t sure how to reclaim my suitcase, mainly because it seemed like the epitome of chaos;

The baggage carousels, and there were only two of those, were both broken, the screens above them, which were intended to inform people upon which carousel to hover, were also broken. What there was, and I am dead honest here, was tens of suitcases kicked off the carousel by an employee, whose job description apparently includes doing just that. And tens more being pushed out by another employee whose job is, and this is only a suspicion based on what I saw, to replace the carousel.

At any rate, half an hour or so later, and after an extensive search in the mazes of suitcases tossed around the area, I found mine and dragged it out. From there, the ride to the hotel was smooth, if it wasn’t for the talkative driver who also tried to score a ride to the Dead Sea or Petra, during our stay. But by then, I’ve already been on the run for almost 12 hours, and a killer headache made nodding off an easy task.

There was an ordeal regarding the hotel, but there’s no need to get into that. It was solved by 7 o’clock next morning, by dragging the suitcases and checking out, and picking somewhere else to stay, using the lack of internet service for an excuse.

And here, interestingly, is where things got bumpy.

Exactly how, or rather, why does a country like Jordan have fully booked hotels all around the city in the middle of August? It’s not the French Riviera; the weather isn’t half-decent, there’s nothing interesting in the city. The Dead Sea has its own hotels, so nobody would be staying in Amman if that was indeed their destination. Ditto for Aqaba. It’s scorching hot, dusty, crowded, and boring. But of course, one look down the street would give anybody a clue.

If you can’t read Arabic, then you’re indifferent to all the Saudi, Bahraini and Kuwaiti licence plates filling the place. You’d only notice massive cars with…your typical Arab man with his typical ninja-like wife, clad all in black. And a few kids in the back seats. The massive car, generally, is an SUV with gilded anything from the logo to the specs plate on the back. And, generally speaking, it would also be a new, expensive car. And if the windows aren’t tinted, you’ll also see that the seats inside are either covered in white sheets, or still retaining their plastic wraps from the factory.

…hilarious.

You will also see the occasional H3 Hummer, or something equally massive, or even more outrageously expensive and costly to run, cruising around with the windows down and the most obnoxious, most horrible sorts of music polluting the streets. But then, once they pull off at a parking spot, you can feast your eyes on someone that is, quite obviously, compensating for something with that car. Cough-cough.

Anyway. Getting around without owning a car there is difficult. Actually, it’s difficult anyway, considering all the traffic and the utter lack of respect for such things as red lights and those whimsical little things called pedestrians. So I went to the hotel’s reception and asked about taxi company numbers and how to call them. I was told that…I need to go down the street and simply stop a taxi there.

Only, you stop a taxi, after half an hour to forty five minutes of waiting, and then one of two things happen—the driver is either an obnoxious male who doesn’t feel like driving to your destination because it’s too nearby, or too inconvenient, or is a suspicious-looking bearded man who has some religious radio channel blazing in the car, and who generally isn’t in favour of females that aren’t covered from head to toe. Either way, you get the once-over, and you’re told that they’re sorry, they can’t take you there.

Walking down the street to get anywhere also constitutes crossing the street. Which generally means you do that as your own risk.

About as pleasant as food poisoning, and just as bad for your health.

I knew to pack the more conservative clothing items, while attempting to stay fashionable. I knew it also meant curbing all impulses, swallowing all jokes, not laughing too loudly and generally attempting to not draw attention. I knew that just because of my accent, I would also receive some unpleasant treatment on basis that I’m Iraqi. You know, the lot, when your fellow countrymen infest a country like fungus on blue cheese—some people prefer their cheese plane and fungus-free.

But it drove me insane.

From the idiotic guy behind a KFC counter, to the idiotic guy serving a typical Shawarma sandwich. From the sales assistant at a clothing store at the mall to the store-owner of typical handicrafts. If you’re a female, and you’re single and young, they will stand there and try to flirt. Like a persistent bug that keeps buzzing in your ears, and all you want to do is squash it with a newspaper.

It drove me insane how you suppress your laughter and your character, because everybody is looking at everybody else, that it’s imperative to seem perfect at all times. It drove me insane how from the moment you land to the moment you take off, you’re a slave to everybody you don’t give a shit about—because they’re always looking, criticizing, pointing and commenting. How they all have skeletons in their closets, and how they all live in glass houses, but they dare to point the finger and toss the stone.

And it’s infuriating how there’s nothing anybody can do about it. Because you’re a pariah at the sign of any difference—like a leper. And nobody wants to be a pariah, especially there. Because then, if you don’t do your own gossip, you’re out of things to do.

I’m not saying it’s all bad. That’s only my impression of it, as a female who no longer lives there and who is happy to be out of there. As a female who values her individuality, appreciates spontaneity and enjoys life. That’s my impression, as a female that likes law and order better than an expensive car and an extravagant life with little work and lots of mingling and gossiping and indulging in all sorts of dull passé-temps.

I felt claustrophobic there. I couldn’t go out on my own, because it’s too scary. I couldn’t do anything, because there was nothing to do. It was like everybody has their own box, full of sand, and once you’re there you’re forced to step into yours and hand in the key to everybody else. And you’re there for life, or until you leave. I couldn’t sit, speak, joke or laugh how I pleased. And to me, used as I am to expressing myself openly and freely, that was a prison. And it was one hot cell, full of sand and bugs. And fungus.

The difference was stark, and I’m not sure how to explain it. Many would disagree, males would disagree, Arab males would, most certainly. But to me, and I’m an Arab female who understands what’s going on around her, the looks and the words and the gestures, I hated it. I hate it. That one week was a motive to work my butt off to launch a career elsewhere. To keep out of that extravagant, sprawling hell, with its men and it’s women and it’s….everything.

Now, isn’t that a headache, and an indigestion, among other things?

Dec

17

Straw for the drowning

Category: Politics, Stupidity, Iraq, People | Leave a Comment

Over the course of the past year, I’ve been refusing to make comments of incidents that receive media attention on such levels as the shoe-tossing journalist. But since I’ve given expressing my opinion a shot at an Iraqi voice chat room, and was received with no less than a large hue of swear words delivered directly to my screen as well as wellies of all sizes and colors, I figured…what the heck, might as well just toss my two cents in.

Yes, so the shoe-tossing and tomato-throwing is a part of the democratic process everywhere in the world. But excuse me here, are we actually a democratic country? And do we have the right to wrap the incident under the cloak of democracy just yet?

No. Oh, hell no!

Here’s why. A nation that cannot accept a variance in opinion without resorting to the lowest, most ridiculous and most obscene of accusations and comparisons does not deserve to be called a democratic nation. And I don’t suppose there’s a moron out there that would mistake Iraq for a nation of tolerance or democracy yet.

By refusing to state that Muntather al Zaidi is a hero, I am not depriving a hero of his wreath of laurel or worse, the crown of thorns some absurd individuals are bestowing upon him as a martyr of the people. To me, he is a man who might very well have ulterior motives, and whose patriotism was somehow unaffected by the atrocities our own politicians have committed under one excuse or the other, and targeted the one person that had no true jurisdiction in the country but who could bring him the most attention.

He’s not my hero; my hero would hurl a shoe at Al-Maliki, or better, at Al-Hakim or Al-Sadr and other religious figures that have been manipulating people and abusing the figurative power and respect the simpleton and the naïve have for them.

I’ve laughed at it. One of my best friends, an American, said that he would have tossed his chair if had he been in the man’s shoes. But then, he’s American and I am not. I’m more interested in seeing my own blood-sucking countrymen receiving shoes than a foreign president who has been the world’s laughing stock for years. That incident hasn’t truly changed anything.

The flaw in what I’ve just said isn’t an actual flaw, rather it’s a flaw in the perception many people have for it. Your typical Iraqi mentality is familiar with black and white, friends or enemies. Grays are unheard of, as are middle grounds. Therefore, by stating my lack of interest in the incident, or my disapproval of the target, I am generally considered to be an American-ass kisser, and a Bush-lover.

Bullshit.

And in addition, when I state that an Iraqi journalist or any journalist is supposed to value his neutral sense and his wit and pen to reverence, I am implicitly insulting the new national hero, Muntather. And that immediately makes me unpatriotic.

Well, people…here comes a painful truth for you:

History immortalizes those who help reshape and rewrite it; Muntather al Zaidi will not reshape, rewrite, change or even redefine the course of history in any way whatsoever. Nor will his name be immortalized. And like many so-called heroes who have become the target of a brief span of attention of the caliber Muqtada al-Sadr has had when he locked himself up at a shrine, he will be spoken of for a day or two until a more interesting chew-toy is offered to the public.

A victory it is not; U.S. presence is still prominent in Iraq. George Bush is not even suffering a scratch, and he’s actually quite accustomed to being ridiculed in public. Nothing new about that.

It has not brought the dead back to live, has not compensated for all the lives lost or changed. And the comfort of laughter it granted initially will fade,revealing the unchanged reality.

And your newly crowned hero will be suddenly forgotten as he suddenly appeared.

But a drowning man will clutch at a straw, and that is what our drowning nation is doing.

Nov

4

2008 Presidential Elections

Category: Politics, Stupidity, People | Leave a Comment

I’m not a big fan of television, or most forms of media beside the internet for that matter. And granted, even the time I spend online isn’t exactly wasted on digging into CNN Online anymore. Because, frankly, what could possibly happen that is worth my time and attention? And could it really be more interesting than, say, a nap?

I don’t think so.

But of course, I can’t seem to go to the kitchen to pick at the contents of the fridge or get myself some coffee without listening to the raving election madness– It used to be all about Angelina Jolie giving birth in Namibia or in the French Riviera. Benign crap I can pretend to be interested in. But for months now, it’s been all about Obama trying to score some votes while McCain was spending a weekend in Arizona. If anybody has coughed, hiccupped, flushed the toilet, gave away a dog treat or made a semi-important statement about issues irrelevant to us, we’ve heard all about it. And by we, I mean people who are non-American and who couldn’t care less, but who seem magically…sucked into the whole craze-election-maze. Granted, Iraq’s ‘future’ - whatever that may be like- will be heavily influenced by the outcome of this ordeal. But…we don’t really need to know the details. I personally don’t give a nickel that Obama’s middle name is Hussein, and am not really interested in his marriage or in the number of suits he has, the shoes his wife has, or the schools his children go to. Or in McCain’s marriage, service years, grand-children or anything. All of those have actually been widely…used and abused by the media. That may or may not swing some people into voting for one candidate or the other. But why is it broadcasted overseas to people who…don’t really care?!

I may add that the actual outcome of this ordeal won’t have any real effect on Iraq for another few months, per se. And as far as I can see, it won’t really affect our economy either—it’s too far behind to be influenced by this…’flourishing depression’.

That hysteria is understandable, though. It’s the media. They seemed equally hyped over the lack of undergarments where celebrities are concerned, and everybody’s heard about the L.A. Butcher. But when people seem to get out of their way and simply spam everybody around them into supporting one candidate or the other, in elections where nobody has an actual vote, that is just pathetic and very aggravating.

I am sick of receiving election-related e-mails and IMs and other e-heaps-of-crap from people who aren’t American, and whose lives will never be influenced by the US in the foreseeable and the unforeseeable future. People who also have no interest in politics whatsoever, and who know as much as a carrot does, where that is concerned. People who are, sadly but annoyingly, only interested in one candidate because he’s the same race as they are. And that goes for the McCain supporters who dislike Obama on racist basis, and the Obama supporters who like Obama for the very same reason.

“Dedicate your status to supporting Obama!” or “Join the McCain Campaign online!” or “Support this SOB running for the White House, where he makes decisions that might or might not have anything to do with you! EVER!”…Seriously?

Spam my mailbox when your country starts depending on how bad the next president screws it. Otherwise, either get a hobby or spam the mailboxes of people with actual votes. When YOU get the right to vote.

Aug

16

Why I no longer argue

Category: Politics, Iraq, Life, Reflections | 1 Comment

Every now and then, I would follow current event issue with interest. Not too often, because sadly, our national affairs are in a pitiful state of chaos that is nothing if not disgruntling to follow up.

Typically, people would argue and voices would be raised and words would turn sharper and sharper, until the issue is stomped back into oblivion with no further resolution. A wide range of people would contribute to that hectic fury, some with more right than others, and others with only the illusion of the right to speak. And as they argue and bicker at one another, I find myself wondering whether that argument is for what’s in the best interest of the nation, what’s in the best interest of their personal bank accounts, or simply in the best interest of fickle egos that feed upon little victories, such as silencing an opponent- who might as well be bored into silence.

Some of the arguments I hear are reasonable, coming from individuals who don’t claim to be well-informed, but who sound it. Individuals who have the common sense and the logic to support an argument and carry it confidently without sounding like five year olds in a brawl over toys. At other times, arguments are supposedly supported by evidence that are flaunted around like a stripper’s feather boa in a cheap show, supported with the same amount of common sense expected to be found in the brain of a gum-chewing bimbo whose life revolves around manicures, and of course, sprinkled with moments of childish persistence and an occasional foot-stomp or two. The type of argument that gives a headache, an indigestion and an incredible sense of contempt towards the level some people seem to descend to, while claiming superior knowledge and skill.

Personally, I am a firm believer in sheer human values; my ‘Iraqism’ is secondary to my humanity, and everything else is secondary to my ‘Iraqism’. For that matter, I simply believe that Iraq would be a worthless piece of land without people to hold it true to its value, whatever that is. A lot of people seem to disagree with that, seeing that their personal ‘vision’ for a futuristic and prosperous Iraq has to be the offspring of their current convictions. And that if anybody disagrees, they’re traitors to the land and…whatever values it allegedly stands for.

One argument I was dragged into lately was regarding the likelihood of a Kurdish separation, and where the remainder of the Iraqi population would stand.

I have to say at some point I was rather spiteful towards separationist Kurds and the fact that while the country is in time of crisis, they would be bailing on it. However, as time passed by and I saw that not one stratus of the population was reaching to another in an attempt to reconcile, I realized that having the potential to break free from a situation, no one should have to deal with a mess they do not claim as their own.

Let the eagle, sparrow or even the chicken spread its wings, so long as it can. Whether it takes off is another matter, and it’s the bird’s problem.

One lady, who interestingly claims to be educated and refined and spends a vast amount of her time praising herself and ridiculing all opposition, suddenly came up with the theory that separationist Kurds should be expelled from the country. To quote roughly, she said something to the effect that if they claim the potential to start a country of their own, they should go buy an island off the shores of Turkey and live there, we will not share our land with them.

Apparently she forgot that Arabs didn’t sprout out of the lands of Iraq, and that by the same argument, we should all be denounced and expelled southwards into the sands of Arabia, and that the population should solely be composed of our Assyrian brothers. And apparently she has forgotten that the reason Iraq used to be so unique was its diversity; our inherent ability to live together despite all the so-called ‘differences’. Once that ability turns to an inability to tolerate one another, it’s best that we go our separate ways.

Another argument I shared just yesterday was regarding Kirkuk; whether the city should be integrated into the autonomous region of Kurdistan, or whether it should maintain its status quo as…I don’t know what.

The opinion that I shared on that matter, which seemed to displease so many people, was as simple as that I believe nobody has as much as half a vote on that matter beside the actual population of Kirkuk, regardless of their ethnic and religious backgrounds, given that the city is a tapestry of threads in diverse colors that compose the overall pictures. Poetic analogy, completely ripped off another person’s argument, who ironically saw that they had no right to demand to be integrated into Kurdistan. My opinion was as simple as holding a referendum to see how opinions swayed, and operating based on that. Because after all, one cannot force them into adopting the failing southern part of the country in the name of patriotism, while they could have a chance to prosper under the flag of the northern region.

That flag is another point of argument which I find rather ridiculous.

At any rate, what happened was that everybody disagreed, or almost. Ironically, not one person was from Kirkuk and the vast majority of the speakers haven’t seen Iraq in a number of years that can mostly be counted using double digits.

Claiming the right to decide what’s best for Iraq is a nice thing. We all have the right to express our opinions, especially regarding what we think is best for our nation. But if we fail to agree or reach out into a middle ground, then we ought to shut up really, and give other people an opportunity to try what we have failed at.

Moreover, people who have left Iraq 10, 15 or even 20 years ago and have settled into various other countries aren’t likely to ever return regardless of all the pink dreams and the cloud-nines they paint so artfully with words. Having settled into a new country, integrated into its population and adopted the most suitable of its habits, having gotten a job and a home and put your children to school, having achieved stability, financial and otherwise…such things aren’t particularly easy to give up for the dreams of returning to a home that is no more than memories we bear and cherish, and that no longer exist anywhere but our minds and hearts.

People who have settled and established their lives with any amount of success aren’t likely to trade the stable life of a stable country for the unstable, doubtful life of a country that is still very much like a prematurely-born infant struggling for a breath in an incubator. And by the time that infant is sturdy, breathing on its own and functioning, the odds are that none of us will be alive to dream anymore, and our children will have never seen what we speak of. Our children will have forgotten what we used to say, and they will have already established their own lives in the only homes they’ve known. Away from ‘Home’.

So ultimately, the arguing and the grudges that build from it are time and effort laid to waste. An unnecessary heart ache. Emphasizing non-existent differences and sprouting disagreements out of the fact that we are all practically the same and only human beings. Somehow, the fact that we would all like to live in peace and prosperity is overridden by a mad impulse to prove right, to have the loudest voice and the fattest wallet and the most powerful contacts. And the most fed egos.

It’s usually why I avoid current events and arguing.

Aug

4

Babble-babble-lame-scrabble

Category: My diary, Total nonsense | Leave a Comment

So I’m in one of those absolutely ridiculous and absurdly undecided moods where I’d like to do a fuckton of things, none of which seems quite doable at the moment. That is, beside vegetating and writing a crappy post that represents the manifestation of those stirrings of life that are summed up in occasional, stray electric pulses going off between the remainder of those still-functional neurons in my brain.

Way to try to sound smart. I could have just said ‘bullshit’.

I blame that on coffee.

I feel like giving my feet a good soak in hot water and then some load of cream and ridiculously thick cotton socks- the footsie idea of a spa- since they’re aching after yet another day of walking around picking the perfect ‘accessories’ that we don’t exactly need for the new apartment. In sandals. I might add that when the Romans (Or the Greeks, or who-the-eff-ever) invented Sandals, they didn’t really consider the amount of things that –could- and –would- fall on your feet while you’re doing some shopping. For example…curtain rods, entire rolls of curtain or upholstery fabric, that big giant box where the metal table lamp you were particular about sits, or just your good little bottle of water that decides to inconveniently slip and fall down on your toes, because you’re just at that point where your brain doesn’t toss a nickel to coordinate whack for you. Not to mention by-passers pushing carts – shopping, baby and otherwise- who aren’t exactly paying attention to tiny little you with your tiny little feet in your tiny little sandals. Because they’re tall, and you’re just below their ‘superior’ field of vision.

In this case, that’s…pretty much ‘me’.

The reason why I can’t do that just now is unknown. Well, at least unknown beyond ‘too tired to give a rat’s ass about pampering my feet right now’.

I also feel like grabbing the guitar for some strumming if it wasn’t for the fact that my arm and my shoulder aren’t getting along well- not beyond the fact that I’m their common enemy, anyway. Apparently, shoulders get touchy-feely about heavy weights and over-loaded purses and shopping bags with shoulder straps that aren’t exactly designed for the shopper’s comfort as much as they’re designed to prod the lame shopper into going home as soon as he’s paid the dues. So that too is out of question.

I do feel like writing a post. Unfortunately, I also feel like sleeping but I have two coffees running my system at the moment and the only thing that would come out of my mouth- or my fingers, such is the case now- is totally useless nonsensical crap. Most of which consists of whining about my day and about all the things I’d like to do right now but can’t do because I’m physically beat and quite close to being brain dead. If not just that.

Anyway, so I feel like drawing. But apparently when your arm and shoulder don’t get along your hand tends to catch the ‘vibe’ of ‘negative energy’ and breaks in tears. And since both ‘arm’ and ‘shoulder’ agree on the fact that you’re the common enemy, the hand is of course swayed by…well…democratic means, and agrees with them by proxy.

I mean me, of course. And not much logic can come out of this brain so…well..beat it!

And brain death tends to…you know…hinder all ‘creative’ effort put into drawing something that is completely out of my artistic league to begin with. And that was “UNspired” by the prolongued ride home, passing by one exceptionally-lame goth motel in the downtown area at lunch time rush hour. With an empty stomach. And a….well…my brain was dead already by then. Go figure.

That brain death thingie? Being a vegetable and all? Yes that’s the result of waking up at 9 at the sound of ‘hammering’, not quite the ideal wake up ‘music to my ears’ kind of thing. After like 4-5 hours of sleep when my system is only functional after 8+ sleep hours. Plus the two coffees that should have compensated for the lack of sleep but completely blew the task by killing what little gray matter was restored by those few sleep hours, and finally…a long day of walking around various shops, putting up with heat, cold and noise and lots of tiny accidents where…well…pain was playing the grim reaper for my brain.

Time to pop a pill for the pain, watch some lame sitcoms and call “dibs out” to going grocery shopping.

Jul

29

The painstakingly process of moving!

Category: Life, My diary | Leave a Comment

Anybody that has moved at least once in their lifetime ended up realizing that moving, exciting as it may be at times, is the supreme form of legal self-inflicted torture ever invented by mankind.

At least with my family, it is.

So I moved from Portugal almost a year ago now. And my moving I mean a process that took well over two months that involved packing everything from the most unnecessary sort of needles in our drawers to those gigantic pieces of furniture my mother fell in love with, and by the grace of that menace, we had shipped. In between lies everything from quilts and blankets, to hordes of pillows and all sorts of household items, china and silver, electronics and all sorts of oddities either parent fancied useful. Or just…fancied, really. And by everything, I mean everything short from anything that can actually be put to daily use; fancy pieces of furniture are too fancy for me to sit on with a bowl of Mac &Cheese, and there was no actual furniture shipped beside that, after the ridiculously long shopping process and the painstakingly-longer packing process.

I cannot complain, however. I’ve participated my fair share to that menace; I’ve chipped in with five gigantic and ridiculously heavy boxes, full of everything from books to my pillows, posters, checkered sorts of adhesive paper and things as ridiculous as glow-in-the-dark items. Again, nothing particularly useful or good for daily use. Save for my sacred box of stationary and about a dozen blocks of paper (I’m a stationary glutton, tyvm!)

Now, when I was moving I knew forehand that I won’t be moving to the apartment/house I was to settle into. Because we had practically had no idea where we were moving. To make matters worse, it was still the high season of tourism, which meant that our hotel reservation could not be stretched by much. Quite so, that the week we stayed at the hotel was a sort of a miracle, and we were preparing to either find another hotel or dig for another room by the time we found an apartment to move into. But of course, it was a furnished apartment.

To be in the picture, imagine this. My mother is an extremely opinionated lady who can be extremely picky about what she wants and where she lives. To her, staying at a furnished apartment was very much like staying at a convenient hotel until she found an apartment she really fancied. Knowing that, by the grace of God that is, my suitcase weighed a whopping 57 kilograms the morning I left because I’d made sure I’d stuffed everything I could possibly need for a year to come. Not to mention the two pieces of hand luggage which weren’t checked; the backpack containing my laptop and which quite inconveniently weighed about 15 kilograms to its own right thanks to the masses of AC adapters and electronics I’ve stuffed there. And the other trolley bag in which all the books, papers and a variety of other items settled into.

Indeed, I did not regret the mind-numbingly packed luggage, because almost a year later I was still living in the furnished apartment, using the same things I brought with me, and waiting for my dear-dear things of which I no longer had a solid memory. I only knew I had a guitar in those boxes, and that I liked the contents quite enough to pack them.

….Not exactly.

After a year spent looking around apartments in Budapest, we came to a conclusion that sizeable apartments were a myth. Furthermore, living in the metropolitan area gave you one of two choices; old and supposedly classic buildings which would give me the creeps on days when classes ran late and well into the dark and which had more problems than a 90 year old lady, or modern and super-convenient buildings which came with apartments the size of a thimble. The furnished apartment I was staying at was in a modern and super-convenient compound, suitably situated at a proximity from everything; the subway, college, the marketplaces, the tourist attractions, promenade spots, a mall and most conveniently of all, two supermarkets downstairs. So after a year of looking, the conclusion was that we utterly refused to consider even the sole idea of moving out of that particular neighborhood. A little while afterwards, it was ‘no leaving this compound’.

The REAL issue here was the size of almost all the apartments we’ve seen; they’re too small, most came with no storage space and many people thought that we ought to ‘rent’ their garage separately, which went otherwise unused. Didn’t add up to make much sense.

But one day, two contract-extensions later and less than a month to go for another extension, we found an apartment! Not only was it in the same neighborhood and the same compound, it’s in the same darn building! And not only was it rather large, but it also came with a storage space in the basement and a parking spot as well. The only issue here was the fact that it was empty; zilch, nada, nichts. There was absolutely nothing in that apartment beside…well…blinds.

I was thrilled, of course. At first at least. Not that long afterwards it dawned on me that shopping for furniture was a form of torture to its own right. But I was telling myself I will finally have my precious boxes and the rest of my suitcases and that I will live happily forever after. Or for a few years at least.
Well….no.

A month later, we did have the bedrooms and the closets and the desks and the dressers and the television and the rest of…what you expect to find in a normal household. Or a relatively normal one. But it was finally time to get the boxes and dude was I surprised. I’ve apparently underestimated the 50-something boxes, each of which with the potential of packing three people my size with extra room for foam!

That was the real hiccup. I was just done packing today and I swear I would rather…die than pack and move again. The storage is full to the point where you cannot even stuff a slipper. My closet is so full I can’t even slip my hand between the racks. My dresser is quite full that if I don’t fold a shirt right, the drawer will hang open. And mind you, I’m not the type to fold things, so that isn’t sitting well with me at all.

Not only that, but I’ve had a rather unimpressive collection of bruises thanks to the number of items I’ve bumped, dropped or walked straight into. A number of old injuries prevailing like my beloved right knee going bonkers to the point of having me call it an unflattering name that begins with a B and has an itch. And I’ve only unpacked two boxes worth of items because- surprise, surprise!- there’s no room for anything else.

Not that I deemed ANY of the remaining items of any use.

I also refuse to consider what could have happened if we’ve found an apartment in another building or worse, another compound. The apartment I moved to is at the 5th floor, two floors down from the furnished one where I stayed.

I spent last night in the apartment for the first time while my folks spent it in the other apartment as they were supposed to move the fridge’s contents this morning and hand over the keys. Not to mention that the satellite receiver had to be moved here, and they’re as attached to it as I am to the internet subscription which I had transferred here.

Was it all worth it?

The bed is a world more comfortable, I have a fancy desk straight out of a futuristic sci-fi gig and a room to go with it, the lights are to my taste- I even have a table lamp with leads- and I have a lovely view over the compound’s garden instead of the high school yard the old apartment overlooked. It is a mess if I step outside my room, but it’s a mess my parents are sorting out, so that doesn’t bother me. I have my massive collection of silly glow-in-the-dark items stuck on the walls already, with my 5 posters pending for me to muster the will to climb around and hang them.

Yes, the compound’s playground is in the garden and I’ve exchanged street and school noises with children, not to mention the unholy sound of the lawn mower every other day. I’ve also exchanged the laughter of over-partied and quite drunk youth wandering back home for the noise of crickets and frogs lurking about the miniature pond. Which is oddly soothing and ‘nightley’, so to speak.

And there are no shutters on my windows anymore because the sun doesn’t hit here, but there are blinds. Again, my walls aren’t white but a shade of beige I would pick if I were 30 years older even though it sits rather nicely with everything now.

Moreover, mom’s hideously oversized pieces of furniture seemed to eat up space in the living area, and they’re not items I’d risk my life by sitting upon; they look gracefully sturdy, but it’s my mother I’m fearing here.

But I am quite content despite sleep-deprivation (my fault), and despite feeling as though somebody has taken the trouble to break every single bone in my body in three or more locations before poking my muscles with pins. I’m finally ‘home’.

Jun

11

The Muppet Show

Category: Politics, Iraq, Reflections | Leave a Comment

Every time I turn on TV, pick a news paper or surf the web I find myself staring at one of three things; American primary elections, or in other words the Hillary-Obama show. The Lebanese crisis which is, to me, of no interest whatsoever. And finally, whatever fireworks take place anywhere in Iraq. Which is, in all honesty, becoming like a broken record in terms of how the government responds to it and how everybody peeves everybody else about it.

Regarding the primary elections, it’s very much like living in the same building as a big fat lady; she dyes her hair every four years. It shouldn’t concern me if she dyes it blond, as long as she doesn’t come to my doorstep and act blond.

Lebanon; that’s a different building, in a different compound, altogether in a different district. It can crash and burn. My interest in that area is similar to that in Panama’s forecast.

When it comes to Iraq though, sometimes I feel compelled to just sit and watch bits and pieces of the news because it’s simply impossible to be disinterested no matter how frustrating it all gets. Though regardless of how frustrating it gets, it all sounds comic in the news. At least the parts where some boo-hoo government official makes a doo-daa statement about something altogether preposterous. The bigger the scale, the more darkly-amusing it all gets.

For example, during Al-Maliki’s visit to Iran, which was dedicated to un-ruffling their ruffled feathers over the security pact project, he made a statement which, if anything, made me look around and wonder what the hell I’m doing so far away from home if it’s all so…good!

“Iraq today doesn’t present any threat as it used to be in the times of the former regime. Today’s Iraq is a constitutional state based on the rule of law, and it seeks to develop its relations with the regional countries based on cooperation and mutual respect”. Al-Maliki said.

True enough, the ‘country’ couldn’t hurt a fly if it wanted to. I don’t suppose it could manage anything of the sort when it’s got gastrointestinal cancer. However, what really amused me more than anything is how Iraq is a constitutional state based on the rule of law. It’s a no-brainer, turn on your television and amuse yourself.
When it comes to “developing relations with the regional countries based on cooperation and mutual respect” I suppose by that he means “We provide a nice mess to keep the world too occupied to what may be happening next door” or…”we provide their religious fanatics with a cause to become martyrs” though I’m sure we’ll catch a glimpse of them in hell. Or perhaps he means something in the line of getting bullied on grounds of “cooperation and mutual respect”.

The cherry to that lovely cupcake would be…

Earlier, Iran’s state-run news agency IRNA quoted the Iraqi leader as saying that “Baghdad would not allow its soil to be used as a base to damage the security of the neighboring countries, including Iran.”

I don’t know whether he actually made that statement or some genius improvised it before publishing his front-page report about Al-Maliki’s visit. I just know that it takes absolutely no genius to sort two things out.

The first being that with or without a security pact, if and when the US perceive the need to take action against Iran, they wouldn’t have a real problem with using Iraqi soil for that purpose (Whether strategically and logistically convenient it’s another matter). The government can bark all they want about it, but the fluffy secure dens in which they all live are kept tightly secure by Americans. And if they bark too loud, hell will break loose. Think about it.
The second is simply that the chances for the US taking military action against Iran in the near future, with Iraq representing the deep swamp in the way it currently is, are so slim. Pick a map and take a good contemplative look at the massive frontier extending from Iraq to Afghanistan, and think “Would they, or wouldn’t they”.

I’m a simpleton, I like to look at things as they are. I don’t like fancy and elaborate conspiracy theories with justifications to everything that has happened since day-1, made and fitted specifically for the gap at hand. I have no problems with staring at TV for a while, staring at the map for a while and doing some simple math.

It’s just safe to make statements of the sort, especially when the whole mission behind the visit is to hand over tranquilizers to people who do complicated math before opening their mouths. It makes everything sound more or less like…well, the Muppet Show. Which is, again, preposterous.

Mar

22

Happy Anniversary, Cain and Abel!

Category: Iraq, Reflections | Leave a Comment

So it’s been five years. Do I really want to open that can of worms…

Let’s see. People talk about it, and in their words there’s a hue of sentiments from praise to resentment, all of which have already been chewed up and spit out so repeatedly over the years that if anything, it all sounds slimy.

I don’t even have an opinion regarding the war and its aftermath anymore. It’s something that’s happened already; even though I’m too much a cynic to believe in that bull about the basic human goodness which made everybody want to free Iraq and Iraqis, I wouldn’t particularly care if they were driven there by the devil. Truly, in my opinion, finding out the true reasons and waving them out like “Eureka!” won’t do, or undo, anything.

I’m sick of people flaunting their make-shift believes at me as though they’re worth a nickel, demanding that if I don’t blindly believe, that I don’t believe in the opposite. I’m sick of people with brains like a shiny bubble that…reflects everything but is full of air. I’m sick of people who are determined to stifle thought; all thought except for what serves their interests…or suits their mood. I’m sick of people who are blind and deaf to all but the voice of their mind and the voice of their idol.

In honor of a fifth year of futile nonsensical rattle passing, why don’t you all shut up?!

I don’t care about race, ethnicity, religion, political orientations and hands that rock the godforsaken cradle anymore. I don’t care. May they all, idiots and idols and ideologies, rot in hell. All I care about is that five years later, that piece of land remains the Reaper’s hot spot, thanks those who sell canned thoughts with patriotic wraps, causing the bloodshed to continue and lives to have become nothing but statistics.

If only the bloodshed made a difference, but we have all seen beyond doubt that it will not raise the dead or restore the lives that fell apart from either side. Not the soldier, and not the civilian; those who fell are missed as parents, siblings, partners and friends. They’re missed as humans. But people stopped noticing that because they’re too busy talking and “being different”.

Happy-effing-Anniversary, Cain and Abel!

Jan

1

Reflections upon the New Year

Category: Life, Reflections, My diary | Leave a Comment

Every year, some people spend New Year evening celebrating, others planning. Some people spend it moping, mourning the days and years past and foretelling grimmer days and years to come. Some people spend it with indifference.

Like every ordinary teenager, New Year evenings mean a large-scale celebrations to me. There’s always something going, something to see, some place to be; with masses and crowds, with friends or with just family. This year was somewhat different though; with friends from all over, most traveled home for the holiday season. Blessed I may be, like every other Iraqi that lives elsewhere is, I simply don’t have a home to go to and my family is scattered across the globe. Then there was this notion that it’s my first winter here, so I might as well just stick around to see what the holiday season is like.

The results were as follows; it’s negative-umpteen outside and it’s snowing all the time, lightly or heavily. It’s too cold to bother go out; even colder to bother with the really “Christmasy” places, let alone watching the New Year fireworks on the river bank.

My New Year evening consisted of hanging out in the living room with my folks and staying warm, ingesting as many hot liquids as humanly possible and only getting up to visit the “loo”. Taking an occasional look through the window at the fireworks and the snow-covered “winter wonderland” and people walked down the street, I wondered about their lives and what’s going on in their minds on a night like this.

That, however, gave me time to think of the past, the present and the future. A New Year is like many other events in my life; the manifestation of “endings and beginnings”. To me, it was the end of an era and the beginning of another.

For once, I realized that I’m on the threshold of the adult world, if not already there. As a teenager, life consisted of wishful thinking and sulking around. The majority of time is spent coming up with plans that rarely last beyond a fortnight, fluctuating with teenager moods. But now, I see myself in a position where my plans, notions and feelings don’t fluctuate no more; they’re stable. Not only stable, but they don’t have to be mere thoughts anymore. I can finally take a thought, a wish…and breathe life into it.

2007 was a year spent on thoughts; and it was partially well-spent. I knew many endings and beginnings; many people vanished for my life, while I decided to cut others off for various reasons. Others appeared in my life, some occupying empty spots and others attempting to but failing miserable. Occasionally, I corked a spot or two. I’ve moved from one country to the other, one home to another, and possibly one career-path to another. The end of 2007 presented a new life, and a new me. They were major changes in my life that required much thinking and contemplating, and they were changes that I needed to feel thoroughly. But it’s about time to move on from that as well.

Now I have my plans, I no longer stand in pitch black darkness concerning life. I know exactly what I want and how I’d like to approach it. I know the pros and cons of the decisions I’ve made, should I ever implement them. I know as well that my performance concerning my plans during this year will not only determine those following 5-6 years, and not only my career-path, but will have a strong impact on the eventuality of my life.

Not everybody is standing at that point of their life; many look back and remember decisions made years ago; some fortunate enough to revel in remembrance of a right decision, while others mourn it. Many others look forward to it and continue the daydreaming and futile planning. I believe I’m very fortunate to be stand at the very beginning of the path and decide how to walk it.

I believe it’s safe to say that my goal for this year is to guarantee that for years to come, I won’t have a reason to look back and say “If only…”

Life’s a wide animal that needs to be collared and tamed…it’s about time to tame mine into submission…and then obedience

Nov

12

Making a Michelangelo of life

Category: Random, Life, Drawing, Arts, My artistic tendencies, Reflections, Total nonsense | Leave a Comment

I’ve compared life to art before. Not in the artistic sense, just in the sense that you’re the one that gets to decide what comes next. Life is one big lump of clay, one blank sheet of paper. You get to decide what to mold it into, or what goes in it. However, what I always miss mentioning is the fact that though you may have this wonderful image in your mind, and though you may be doing your best to put it to life the way you’ve perceived it, you may not always be that successful.

You never truly get disappointed if you do all the right steps. You can’t see yourself drawing a Michelangelo and get a pencil, or worse; a crayola set, and a blank A4 sheet and get to it. That really doesn’t happen. And it won’t happen if you got the artistic skills of an attention-deficit 3 year old with more imagination than talent and skill put together.

Then, play doe is all you can manage, and all you should be managing. Pick your pieces wisely.

In the other hand though, if you wish to draw a Michelangelo, take baby steps towards the greater target. Work on your skills and your talent, or the lack of thereof. Take classes; start with learning how to draw a circle without ending up with Australia’s F1 track, for example, if you’re artistic skills don’t go beyond drawing recognizable shapes while playing tick-tack-toe. Then when you’re over that, buy good material, and start with…something humble, instead of aspiring for a Michelangelo. You’re not likely to get one right away, anyway.

And even then, it probably wouldn’t look exactly like a Michelangelo. But I suppose if you’ve put enough effort into it, you will end up with something you’re quite pleased with.

It’s like that in real life, you know? You’re not all born to be Bill Gates. You’re not even born to be Pamela Anderson. You’re not born to be the town’s best-known doctor. Not even the clerk actually. Some of you turn to Donald Trump and Rosy O’ Donnell. Some of you turn to Anna Nicole Smith or his royal gayness, not that I got anything against gay people; Steven Cojo who talks fashion while his cheekbones scream “implants here!!!!” (Goes for Smith and Anderson with their silicone valleys too). Quite a few turn to the town’s most notorious prostitute or mugger. There are plenty of grays in between, which is pretty much most of us and most people that we know too. But you get the picture.

We’re all born with little talent and no skills at all. That’s why we go to school and spend years and years trying to improve. Some of us stay there and crave their names in the stone whether locally, nationally or even internationally. Some of us stay there, then make good careers and live peacefully (Or not). Some…drop out…stay decent, go astray, succeed otherwise or fail miserably and end up with a bullet in their forehead, a stick up their butt in prison, homeless…or just doing nothing.

None of us ever pictured life that way. When we were born, we didn’t picture anything beside food and sleep. Growing up, most of us had big dreams. Then comes the reality check around teenage that is a maker-or-breaker. A few, only a few, make it to their dreams, or even second-best dreams.

Only a few actually get to make a masterpiece. Only a few get a Michelangelo that looks good, and renders you proud.

I have big dreams for myself. In my entire life, I’ve never looked at anything with the thought “impossible to obtain” in my head. I may not be the most optimistic of people. I certainly have exceptionally melancholic moments, lapses of judgment and mind and health and everything. But the main thought is always the same; if I can’t get this now, I can get it later. Maybe later will carry different desires and needs, but the idea is…there is no impossible.

I’m working on my Michelangelo. I’m past the play doe, the skewed circles and crayolas. I’m past the “Drawing for idiots” too. I think I’ve past the 101 class too, but the road is so long. And I still got no idea whether it’s going to come out as awesome as I always said it will be.

On a different level, the actual “drawing” level, I was sitting in class first thing in the morning trying to get past the lack of sleep and the boredom. I am the proud proprietor of an attention span worthy of a 4 year old that just discovered chocolate and cartoon network at the same time. After drinking the biggest crate of coffee I managed laying hands on, the age of my attention span was reduced to a 2 years old that is altogether hungry, sleepy and wet. When the caffeine was kicking in at its peek, I had no attention span at all. I was trying to catch up with my brain, which was very similar to trying to catch up with a supersonic jet on a bike. The fact that I had to remain seated still made life no easier.

The teacher was talking. I’m sure she was saying important stuff, interesting stuff too. It’s just that anything she says is normally mind-boggling to me when my brain is going on it’s usual pace. When my brain tries divination with her, it’s not so good. So basically she said “words” that I vaguely recall hearing. I was too busy either finding the similarities between what might have been an RNA molecule and a dissected liver…or working on what should have been a random doodle.

In my mind, I had a sort of a fairy whose dress I was going to make all wispy and whose hair was going to be all frizzy and all over the place; like she’s floating midair. Instead, I got what looks like a pie-faced imaginary person that was just electrocuted out of imaginary sleep, and who is wearing no less than…her imaginary bed sheets. As usual, I don’t really care about the background so I just bypassed that.

Yep, this is it, Sybilla…

Now, it’s not THAT bad. It’s not great, but it’s not miserable. It sure as hell beats skewed circles. Now if my life, with my plan to buy my first Lambo in 20 years, lands me with…I don’t know…say smart roadster, I’ll be reasonably satisfied. Half-assed job, excuse my French. But not everybody is a Michelangelo, and if it’s mine and it doesn’t look like a Picasso, I’m happy.

P.S: Some people do make a Picasso, i.e. an overrated mess. We just know them as politicians, so add Dubya and the others to the list…the one with Pam Anderson and Trump. It’s considered a kind of success, but not everybody makes it into bullshitting people into standing ovation.

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