And here... we... go!

I haven't been writing. You could argue, that, for a time, I hadn't been feeling - had put myself full force into today (wake up from a sleepless, baby-dominated night, drink coffee, get groceries, cook), tomorrow, the day after.
Be at the front door at 7:15.
Drop the kids of at 7:23.
Back at the house at 7:28.
Catch the 7:32 bus (maybe), or miss the 7:32 bus (probably).
Sleep on the bus (check twitter, read articles, close eyes).
And all the while there was a voice in the back of my head that said, 'where have you gone? There was a girl in there who used to feel everything so intensely, who sobbed when she cried and shrieked with delight when she laughed, and that girl has dulled and dimmed and quieted', and I would turn the knob down on the voice and say, 'That's just age, that's just maturity, that's just wisdom'.
And when the voice reminded me about the last time I'd read Quran, or stood for Sunnah, or let myself feel in my prayer, I would turn her down too. 'God Knows I'm doing my best. God Knows I don't have time for Sunnah, I barely get enough sleep as it is. God Knows.' (Ignoring that God also Knew how many hours a week I spent on Facebook, on TV shows, on the finally-winning again Habs.)
But no more.
I'm ready to feel again. Ready to feel at a loss and for that to be okay, to feel good, or bad, or scared, or proud, and for that to be okay. To let myself be that small, tired, person because I don't need to know the answers. I don't need to know the plan because it's not my plan anyway. It's God's Plan. and it's going to be great. and that's a huge weight off.

Baby

Tonight after you had taken your bottle in the dark and quiet of your room, I couldn’t bring myself to put you down, couldn’t bring myself to let you go, and so I stood there, a foot from the edge of the crib, with your little hands draped around my neck and your head resting on my shoulder, felt your tiny ribcage expand and contract with every breath as you drifted into the precursors of sleep, felt you be, and just loved you, and just missed you, and just poured all that love and all that missing into the space around us. You are so still when you’re sleeping, so the opposite of your little hurricane self when you’re awake, crawling or twisting or turning or grabbing or pulling (on hair, clothes, toys, furniture, yourself or anything you can reach, really.) And in that stillness I feel your vulnerability, your not-even-one-ness, and it breaks my heart, makes my breath catch for a moment in my throat, so that I have to remind myself to breathe again, to be ok with it.

You are little but getting bigger every day, growing in tiny, imperceptible ways, learning, kitten-like in your mannerisms, your noises, your expressions. I swear I have heard your purr. And I want the moment next to your crib to last forever, but there are lunches to pack and clothes to put away and even if I ignore them, the phone is ringing and your brother is calling me urgently from his bedroom, where he’s probably put his pj’s on backward, and I have to put you down, my love, I have to tend to other things and other people, and pray that in the morning, I’ll get to hold you again in peace, if only for a moment, before we go out into the tornado of the world again.

Motherhood

I have lost the ability to put together multiple coherent sentences, sentences that matter, that mean something to someone else, sentences that discuss something other than mealtime or bedtime battles, clothing wars, potty training progress, teething or growth percentiles. 

I have lost the ability to read anything longer than 2000 words - unless you can show me pictures, unless they are shiny, or the target audience is 15.

I have lost the ability to write, the words flowing off my fingers, through me and into a pen or onto a keyboard, writing unbidden, phrases coming faster than I can put them down somewhere permanent. On the rare occasion they do come, I am in the middle of bath time or bed time, my arms preoccupied with the rocking of an infant or the changing of a diaper, impossible to drop the task at hand. and by the time I get to the pen, the words are gone, vapours in the air, traces of what they were when I first thought them, gifts with the shortest lifespans, available only to those who can quickly, greedily hold them down.

I have lost the ability to fall asleep at a moment’s notice just when I need that ability most, just when my opportunities for sleep come in 10 and 15 minute intervals, just when the duration between the end of the baby’s feeding and the pre-schooler’s rising is exactly that amount of time, lost the ability to power nap when the power nap would give me the most power, refuel me enough to keep my eyes open, my voice answering ongoing, random questions I’ve never considered - what is the sky? Who is grandpa’s brother? Are you going to wash your shirt because it’s green? 

my voice singing - alternately in English and then Arabic and then French, A-B-C, aliph-ba-ta-tha, the wheels on the bus go round and round, rocking the baby, my mind spinning with so much and so little. 

For my baby...

It’s that last moment before bed, when you’ve finished your bottle and we’ve read your Quran and I’m standing up to put you down into your crib, that last moment when I’m holding you around your chubby little waist and I pull you in for a kiss and tell you “tisbah ‘ala kheir’, that I want to last forever. No matter how tired I am, no matter what kind of day it’s been, that kiss on your cheek is never enough, that moment always, always ends too quickly.

And you’re starting to squirm, even now, when I prolong it. When my lips don’t leave your cheek in sufficient time, when I go for a third, or a fourth, or a fifth. You know your routine: the room is dark, we’ve drank our milk, we’ve said our dua, don’t confuse me, Mama, I think now it’s time to sleep. But this is when I ache with my love for you. This is when I don’t know if I’ll be able to bear it to put you down, while you’re still so warm and so soft and so pudgy in my arms, while I’ve forgotten that you whined while we made dinner, or smacked me in the face, albeit playfully, while we sang and clapped.

And then when you wake up at 2 a.m., I think to myself, “Dear God, sleep, Child!” and yet, right at bed time, I wish I could freeze time and stay standing there, suspended above your crib, holding you, rocking you, kissing your delicious little face with your fat little cheeks and your dimpled chin and your extra rolls of adorable. I wish I could freeze it and stay in that moment, just you and me and our love, before you want to run away, before you’re focused on impressing someone else, before you talk back and try to escape your homework, before life.

Ode to Skype

About a year and a half ago, I wrote this very frustrated post about a skype catch-22 wherein M and I lost our credit and couldn't call our family in Egypt. Well, since that time, I've become a super avid Skype user, and I felt they deserved a much-love shout out right here. It's only fair, since I took them to task when they were making me unhappy.

Ode to Skype:

My sisters live two airplanes away
timezones, miles, landmass and oceans between us
hours of sleep and waking upside down
or inside out
Days and nights reversed
Lives inverted

My sisters who
shared my room
whispered late into
the night with me
were the cause of my drowsy eyes
at the kitchen table
my sleepy smile

My sisters who know my secrets
who keep me grounded and help me fly
who giggle better, hug better, bake better, tease better
than anyone I know
My sisters who gave me
the nieces and nephews
I long for all year
who keep me counting down to summers together
when we can laugh at the kitchen table
over breakfast, eyes half open
bleary but dragged to life by the kids
who slept at eight

But
until the kitchen table
until the hugs in person
until the wiping off each others' tears
I see them through the screen
the kids running to and from the computer
voices ringing with excitement
saying hi to their cousins
cooing at babies
shouting to be heard over the din
of all the voices

and the kitchen table spans three continents
an ocean
twelve hours worth of timezones
(some for breakfast, some for supper)
and we're still together
despite the world of bustle in between.

Harry Potter!

I know I'm REAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLY late on the bandwagon, but I have to tell this story so that others don't make the mistake I did...

I never got on the Harry Potter bandwagon; figured it was silly; figured I wouldn't really like it. And despite the fact that everyone who read it told me it was brilliant, way more than a kids' fantasy book, so so so amazing, I just thought "meh". So much so that no matter how many times M suggested I read it, I just told him I probably would - someday. As in, 10 years from now...
So when the sixth movie came out on DVD, and M was going to watch it, I said I'd watch with him. "Are you sure?" he asked. "It gives a lot of stuff away. What if you decide to read the books"... But I insisted. By the time I got to the books, I'd have forgotten anything important, surely. So I watched the movie a few months ago, and that was that. And I still had no plans to read the book...
And then this summer I had several book "misses" - picking books up that had received GLOWING reviews and finding them just not that good. Sometimes not even getting through the whole thing. Disappointed. Always looking for the next good one... and there was M, sitting on the couch, partway through the last book, seeming to really enjoy it and I finally decided "why not? I can't find anything good to read anyway"... And I picked up the first one, and basically didn't look up for 3 weeks, until I was done the last one. So good. So unbelievably amazing.
I want to be J K Rowling. Short of that, I want to be her best friend. I want some of her genius to rub off on me. Best sustained series of writing I've ever read. No character is a stock character; no back story is left unexamined. You care about EVERYONE. For 7 books, for thousands of pages of writing. And when it ends you want it to keep going but at the same time it ends so perfectly that you can't imagine what would come next. I cried.
Except.
Except I'd watched the sixth movie and something REALLY huge happens at the end of the sixth movie, and all through the series, I couldn't forget about this detail I knew that I shouldn't know, and I was so upset with myself that I already knew this, and that it coloured my whole perspective, and that I read certain things that should have been read one way except I knew, I knew! so it wasn't the same....
So, read Harry Potter if you haven't already for goodness sakes. The movies are NOTHING compared to the book. Not even close... and if you haven't already seen the movies, wait! and if you have, it's ok, read the books anyway. You'll still love them. You can't not love them. Trust me.
and then you'll want to be JK Rowling's best friend too...

Pure Joy!

If you know me, you know I'm someone who takes joy in the simple things in life, and that little makes me happier than a good joke or some wordplay... Well, today I was randomly reminded of that genius, Gary Larson, and his incomparable comic strip, The Far Side... I spent some time perusing google images, flipping through some old favourites, and I just had to share my joy with everyone else... (M can attest to the fact that I was really, insanely happy, gleeful even, as I made him look at one comic after another...)
Do yourself a favour and go buy the set (I know I will!) but in the meantime, enjoy this one, on me:

Because it's almost graduation time...

I have a confession to make: I've never read Harry Potter. I just didn't do it early enough (tried one time with the first book and lost interest) and now it seems weird to pick it up. I can't commit to 7 books, not when there are so many others I want to read and so little time to begin with. Not now. That said, I'll probably do it some day - maybe in 2 months, maybe in 30 years, who knows? Also, despite having never read it, I really do like JK Rowling, and I was in Boston last weekend for a visit and toured Harvard (or Hahvahd - as the locals say) so when I read JK Rowling's graduation address to the Harvard class of 2008, I wanted to share. It's a beautiful read, full of wisdom and good ideas, and above all, compassion. Enjoy:


President Faust, members of the Harvard Corporation and the Board of Overseers, members of the faculty, proud parents, and, above all, graduates.
The first thing I would like to say is ‘thank you.’ Not only has Harvard given me an extraordinary honour, but the weeks of fear and nausea I have endured at the thought of giving this commencement address have made me lose weight. A win-win situation! Now all I have to do is take deep breaths, squint at the red banners and convince myself that I am at the world’s largest Gryffindor reunion.
Delivering a commencement address is a great responsibility; or so I thought until I cast my mind back to my own graduation. The commencement speaker that day was the distinguished British philosopher Baroness Mary Warnock. Reflecting on her speech has helped me enormously in writing this one, because it turns out that I can’t remember a single word she said. This liberating discovery enables me to proceed without any fear that I might inadvertently influence you to abandon promising careers in business, the law or politics for the giddy delights of becoming a gay wizard.
You see? If all you remember in years to come is the ‘gay wizard’ joke, I’ve come out ahead of Baroness Mary Warnock. Achievable goals: the first step to self improvement.
Actually, I have wracked my mind and heart for what I ought to say to you today. I have asked myself what I wish I had known at my own graduation, and what important lessons I have learned in the 21 years that have expired between that day and this.
I have come up with two answers. On this wonderful day when we are gathered together to celebrate your academic success, I have decided to talk to you about the benefits of failure. And as you stand on the threshold of what is sometimes called ‘real life’, I want to extol the crucial importance of imagination.
These may seem quixotic or paradoxical choices, but please bear with me.
Looking back at the 21-year-old that I was at graduation, is a slightly uncomfortable experience for the 42-year-old that she has become. Half my lifetime ago, I was striking an uneasy balance between the ambition I had for myself, and what those closest to me expected of me.
I was convinced that the only thing I wanted to do, ever, was to write novels. However, my parents, both of whom came from impoverished backgrounds and neither of whom had been to college, took the view that my overactive imagination was an amusing personal quirk that would never pay a mortgage, or secure a pension. I know that the irony strikes with the force of a cartoon anvil, now.
So they hoped that I would take a vocational degree; I wanted to study English Literature. A compromise was reached that in retrospect satisfied nobody, and I went up to study Modern Languages. Hardly had my parents’ car rounded the corner at the end of the road than I ditched German and scuttled off down the Classics corridor.
I cannot remember telling my parents that I was studying Classics; they might well have found out for the first time on graduation day. Of all the subjects on this planet, I think they would have been hard put to name one less useful than Greek mythology when it came to securing the keys to an executive bathroom.
I would like to make it clear, in parenthesis, that I do not blame my parents for their point of view. There is an expiry date on blaming your parents for steering you in the wrong direction; the moment you are old enough to take the wheel, responsibility lies with you. What is more, I cannot criticise my parents for hoping that I would never experience poverty. They had been poor themselves, and I have since been poor, and I quite agree with them that it is not an ennobling experience. Poverty entails fear, and stress, and sometimes depression; it means a thousand petty humiliations and hardships. Climbing out of poverty by your own efforts, that is indeed something on which to pride yourself, but poverty itself is romanticised only by fools.
What I feared most for myself at your age was not poverty, but failure.
At your age, in spite of a distinct lack of motivation at university, where I had spent far too long in the coffee bar writing stories, and far too little time at lectures, I had a knack for passing examinations, and that, for years, had been the measure of success in my life and that of my peers.
I am not dull enough to suppose that because you are young, gifted and well-educated, you have never known hardship or heartbreak. Talent and intelligence never yet inoculated anyone against the caprice of the Fates, and I do not for a moment suppose that everyone here has enjoyed an existence of unruffled privilege and contentment.
However, the fact that you are graduating from Harvard suggests that you are not very well-acquainted with failure. You might be driven by a fear of failure quite as much as a desire for success. Indeed, your conception of failure might not be too far from the average person’s idea of success, so high have you already flown.
Ultimately, we all have to decide for ourselves what constitutes failure, but the world is quite eager to give you a set of criteria if you let it. So I think it fair to say that by any conventional measure, a mere seven years after my graduation day, I had failed on an epic scale. An exceptionally short-lived marriage had imploded, and I was jobless, a lone parent, and as poor as it is possible to be in modern Britain, without being homeless. The fears that my parents had had for me, and that I had had for myself, had both come to pass, and by every usual standard, I was the biggest failure I knew.
Now, I am not going to stand here and tell you that failure is fun. That period of my life was a dark one, and I had no idea that there was going to be what the press has since represented as a kind of fairy tale resolution. I had no idea then how far the tunnel extended, and for a long time, any light at the end of it was a hope rather than a reality.
So why do I talk about the benefits of failure? Simply because failure meant a stripping away of the inessential. I stopped pretending to myself that I was anything other than what I was, and began to direct all my energy into finishing the only work that mattered to me. Had I really succeeded at anything else, I might never have found the determination to succeed in the one arena I believed I truly belonged. I was set free, because my greatest fear had been realised, and I was still alive, and I still had a daughter whom I adored, and I had an old typewriter and a big idea. And so rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.
You might never fail on the scale I did, but some failure in life is inevitable. It is impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case, you fail by default.
Failure gave me an inner security that I had never attained by passing examinations. Failure taught me things about myself that I could have learned no other way. I discovered that I had a strong will, and more discipline than I had suspected; I also found out that I had friends whose value was truly above the price of rubies.
The knowledge that you have emerged wiser and stronger from setbacks means that you are, ever after, secure in your ability to survive. You will never truly know yourself, or the strength of your relationships, until both have been tested by adversity. Such knowledge is a true gift, for all that it is painfully won, and it has been worth more than any qualification I ever earned.
So given a Time Turner, I would tell my 21-year-old self that personal happiness lies in knowing that life is not a check-list of acquisition or achievement. Your qualifications, your CV, are not your life, though you will meet many people of my age and older who confuse the two. Life is difficult, and complicated, and beyond anyone’s total control, and the humility to know that will enable you to survive its vicissitudes.
Now you might think that I chose my second theme, the importance of imagination, because of the part it played in rebuilding my life, but that is not wholly so. Though I personally will defend the value of bedtime stories to my last gasp, I have learned to value imagination in a much broader sense. Imagination is not only the uniquely human capacity to envision that which is not, and therefore the fount of all invention and innovation. In its arguably most transformative and revelatory capacity, it is the power that enables us to empathise with humans whose experiences we have never shared.
One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working at the African research department at Amnesty International’s headquarters in London.
There in my little office I read hastily scribbled letters smuggled out of totalitarian regimes by men and women who were risking imprisonment to inform the outside world of what was happening to them. I saw photographs of those who had disappeared without trace, sent to Amnesty by their desperate families and friends. I read the testimony of torture victims and saw pictures of their injuries. I opened handwritten, eye-witness accounts of summary trials and executions, of kidnappings and rapes.
Many of my co-workers were ex-political prisoners, people who had been displaced from their homes, or fled into exile, because they had the temerity to speak against their governments. Visitors to our offices included those who had come to give information, or to try and find out what had happened to those they had left behind.
I shall never forget the African torture victim, a young man no older than I was at the time, who had become mentally ill after all he had endured in his homeland. He trembled uncontrollably as he spoke into a video camera about the brutality inflicted upon him. He was a foot taller than I was, and seemed as fragile as a child. I was given the job of escorting him back to the Underground Station afterwards, and this man whose life had been shattered by cruelty took my hand with exquisite courtesy, and wished me future happiness.
And as long as I live I shall remember walking along an empty corridor and suddenly hearing, from behind a closed door, a scream of pain and horror such as I have never heard since. The door opened, and the researcher poked out her head and told me to run and make a hot drink for the young man sitting with her. She had just had to give him the news that in retaliation for his own outspokenness against his country’s regime, his mother had been seized and executed.
Every day of my working week in my early 20s I was reminded how incredibly fortunate I was, to live in a country with a democratically elected government, where legal representation and a public trial were the rights of everyone.
Every day, I saw more evidence about the evils humankind will inflict on their fellow humans, to gain or maintain power. I began to have nightmares, literal nightmares, about some of the things I saw, heard, and read.
And yet I also learned more about human goodness at Amnesty International than I had ever known before.
Amnesty mobilises thousands of people who have never been tortured or imprisoned for their beliefs to act on behalf of those who have. The power of human empathy, leading to collective action, saves lives, and frees prisoners. Ordinary people, whose personal well-being and security are assured, join together in huge numbers to save people they do not know, and will never meet. My small participation in that process was one of the most humbling and inspiring experiences of my life.
Unlike any other creature on this planet, humans can learn and understand, without having experienced. They can think themselves into other people’s places.
Of course, this is a power, like my brand of fictional magic, that is morally neutral. One might use such an ability to manipulate, or control, just as much as to understand or sympathise.
And many prefer not to exercise their imaginations at all. They choose to remain comfortably within the bounds of their own experience, never troubling to wonder how it would feel to have been born other than they are. They can refuse to hear screams or to peer inside cages; they can close their minds and hearts to any suffering that does not touch them personally; they can refuse to know.
I might be tempted to envy people who can live that way, except that I do not think they have any fewer nightmares than I do. Choosing to live in narrow spaces leads to a form of mental agoraphobia, and that brings its own terrors. I think the wilfully unimaginative see more monsters. They are often more afraid.
What is more, those who choose not to empathise enable real monsters. For without ever committing an act of outright evil ourselves, we collude with it, through our own apathy.
One of the many things I learned at the end of that Classics corridor down which I ventured at the age of 18, in search of something I could not then define, was this, written by the Greek author Plutarch: What we achieve inwardly will change outer reality.
That is an astonishing statement and yet proven a thousand times every day of our lives. It expresses, in part, our inescapable connection with the outside world, the fact that we touch other people’s lives simply by existing.
But how much more are you, Harvard graduates of 2008, likely to touch other people’s lives? Your intelligence, your capacity for hard work, the education you have earned and received, give you unique status, and unique responsibilities. Even your nationality sets you apart. The great majority of you belong to the world’s only remaining superpower. The way you vote, the way you live, the way you protest, the pressure you bring to bear on your government, has an impact way beyond your borders. That is your privilege, and your burden.
If you choose to use your status and influence to raise your voice on behalf of those who have no voice; if you choose to identify not only with the powerful, but with the powerless; if you retain the ability to imagine yourself into the lives of those who do not have your advantages, then it will not only be your proud families who celebrate your existence, but thousands and millions of people whose reality you have helped change. We do not need magic to change the world, we carry all the power we need inside ourselves already: we have the power to imagine better.
I am nearly finished. I have one last hope for you, which is something that I already had at 21. The friends with whom I sat on graduation day have been my friends for life. They are my children’s godparents, the people to whom I’ve been able to turn in times of trouble, people who have been kind enough not to sue me when I took their names for Death Eaters. At our graduation we were bound by enormous affection, by our shared experience of a time that could never come again, and, of course, by the knowledge that we held certain photographic evidence that would be exceptionally valuable if any of us ran for Prime Minister.
So today, I wish you nothing better than similar friendships. And tomorrow, I hope that even if you remember not a single word of mine, you remember those of Seneca, another of those old Romans I met when I fled down the Classics corridor, in retreat from career ladders, in search of ancient wisdom:
As is a tale, so is life: not how long it is, but how good it is, is what matters.
I wish you all very good lives.
Thank you very much.

The Book

It's things like this that make me realize
how much you aren't with me
how much you're elsewhere even if
our brains are fused in some spiderweb way

things like
sitting in the Borders
my shoulders hunched over a book
about twins and thinking thoughts
fluidly
from one brain into another
conversations happening
without words
in sequences that are not
chronological
not spacial
not dimensional
sequences that are not sequences at all
but souls woven together

and my shoulders shaking
my eyes dry then wet then weeping
tears on my chin
dribbling down to my skirt
other patrons looking

I mark pages
dog-ear ends of corners to read you
later
to tell you through the wireless
thoughts between us
the part where Bessi leaves Georgia
then Georgia leaves Bessi
we are neither one or the other
but bits of both
twins though older
and younger
though not quite identical on the outside
but not quite whole
alone

Sisters

We are four sides to a square, each holding that precarious balance, their piece of our existence as a whole. We are a range of colours and shapes and emotions, an abstract painting done in some dream of light, a reflection through a foggy mirror, each of us swimming into the next, the distinction so clear and yet so blurry. We can be the same person if we swim far back enough, can reach that point where our hearts are still beating in one spot, are still fed directly from our mother, where our minds do not yet fully exist, where our worlds are warm and fuzzy and hold you so close, so protective, there is nothing to do but be held.
I am a different person with my sisters, different with each of them and yet exactly the same because it is not a secretive change, but a natural one. I am a clown with S, a writer with H, and a sweetheart with A. We fit into each other’s clothes, steal shoes and thoughts and old headscarves, steal ideas. We steal and are stolen from willingly, listen and talk silently, hug and cry when there is nothing else to be done. My sisters stretch before me like sign posts, they stretch after me like a trail of fans, following every step, waiting, breath held, to see what I will do next.
A is the oldest, and so sweet there is something beguiling in her smile. You can’t help but have some of it rub off on you when you’re with her – you start to think more kindly, to talk more earnestly, to ignore the things that drive you crazy. A tricked our parents into thinking all little girls were so angelic, so they went and had more of us, and for that we all owe her.
H is the witness, the one who chronicles our lives, all the joys and the heartbreaks – the graduations and marriages, the births, the reunions and separations. H will make you cry no matter how determined you may be to keep your eyes dry and your face stern. She will find that spot in you by telling, by reminding, by making you soar first and dive later, reach your humanity, your longing. When we are 80 and we want to remember, it is to H’s words that we will turn. When we are 80, she will still find ways to make us cry.
S is the baby and the joker. She is the opening line of a performance that started off as a simple phone call, and the comic relief at the end of any hardship. S has a knack for words and keeps it a secret, tucked away beneath a straight face, sparkling eyes deadpan, waiting for you to crack first. And though she’s the baby she’s been everywhere and done everything. She steamrolls right past you – not showy or obvious, but quietly doing her exceptional thing as though it was nothing, and blushing when you point out the accomplishments, wishing you would stop.
I do not know who I am without them – I am attempts at A’s kindness and gentleness, H’s intensity and lyricism, S’s wit and humility. I am attempts to emulate each of my sisters, falling short and hoping to some day catch up, happy in the meantime that I at least have the teachers to guide me.

So *that's* why this is happening...

I should probably just rename this blog "the Scott Feschuk fan page". The guy is just so hilarious, and his columns in MacLeans magazine are too ridiculously funny not to share with the rest of the world. The newest MacLeans includes his explanation for our fabulous Prime Minister Harper's reasons for proroguing parliament (American friends, ignore this: your country may be mired in all sorts of other messes, but I'm pretty sure if your president ever tried to just "suspend" your houses of government for a few months, there would be a revolution. Unlike here, where we all politely complain about it and go on our merry ways shoveling our driveways and eating beavertails - what's that you say? No snow to shovel this winter? They're going to have to fake the snow in Whistler for the Olympic skiing and snowboarding events? Oh relax, I'm sure that has nothing to do with the ever changing climate and warming temperatures that our government so obviously didn't care about at the Copenhagen climate change summit a few months back! Now now, you're being too paranoid about this whole thing. Relax, enjoy the mild weather).
Oh yes, this was supposed to be a light post. I will leave you to Scott Feschuk's much more entertaining perspective on our country's messed-upedness.

New Years Resolutions

I write New Years Resolutions the way I dream, throwing in a variety of plans and hopes, from the immediate and practical to the out-there and wishful. So... let me try to write some things I can actually accomplish, just to keep myself from getting discouraged, and then let me write somethings that are less likely to keep it interesting and more motivating, and then - just for the heck of it - I'll add some thing(s) that are more 'Life Resolution' than 'New Years Resolution', just to remind me that I still want to get to them at some point.

1. Read a Tariq Ramadan book or two. This man is a genius and I just heard him speak at a conference last week. He has such great ideas and is so good at articulating them that I'm constantly buying his books with the intention to read them, but I have a hard time with long non-fiction books (articles -good, books - not so good) and they're quite academic at the start that I can't get past that. But I must this year. Even if I start in the middle of one of the books to get over the dreaded "first chapter curse", I'll do it.
2. Write more. My good friend Jen over at UticaAvenue and my sister and I have started a little "weekly writing circle" virtually, seeing as we're all in different locations. It's a start, but I need to dedicate more time to writing. I actually would like to start submitting writing to magazines and journals and see what happens. This is my realistic goal...
3. My unrealistic one? Write a novel/novella... I've tried this before but it's never amounted to anything. I think I can do it, with more time and focus, neither of which I currently have. Still, I would love to walk into a store one day and see my name on something. Ultimate dream.
4. Exercise more, eat better. This one is on-going and needs constant reminding. Working on it. This entire month is going to be an exercise in conscious, healthier eating. Will keep you posted.
5. Stay in touch with family/friends who aren't living nearby. I am really really awful at this, as all my friends/family who aren't in Montreal know. Case in point: my friends in Ottawa thought we'd be seeing each other constantly the whole year and a half I was commuting and living there 2 nights a week. I saw a few of them once or twice. That was it.
6. Join a community garden - another far-away one. there are so few gardens with so few spaces that even if I got on a waiting list now, it would take 3 or 4 years before I was actually allotted a spot, so next best thing....
7. Start buying organic. This one IS doable, and I hope to be doing it soon. The more reading I do about this, the more convinced I am that our food system is so messed up, and so tied in with disease, not to mention water wastage, fossil fuels, carbon emissions, that it's worth changing my personal approach to it.
8. Bike to work in the summer. If you live anywhere in Eastern Canada, you know that it's not very easy to bike in the winter. I could do it if I really tried, but it involves a LOT of risk with the way drivers in this city drive, along with the snow and ice and all. But now that I'm living so close to my office, it should be doable when the snow is gone.

and that's what I'd like to do, this month, this year, this life...

Revealing Ramadan, Take 2

The same day I posted my previous Revealing Ramadan blog post, I got an email from the good people at Speaking of Faith. I did a brief interview with them today, and read my Ramadan piece. Same for Jen. Not sure if they'll be posting the audio, but the piece is now on the website, here. Enjoy!

Revealing Ramadan

My dear friend Jen let me know about this fabulous website for NPR's Speaking of Faith program. They're doing a "Ramadan special" where they've asked Muslims to write in with their personal reflections on Islam and/or Ramadan. Some were chosen to air on the radio. Others were chosen to show on the site where you can read them. Jen's is here.
Mine was sent in, but doesn't seem to have made the cut. Since I liked it though, I decided I'd share it with you here.
Don't forget to check out the rest of the stories and reflections on the site. I really enjoyed seeing so many different perspectives.


When I think of Ramadan, I think of many things, but the first is almost always my mother, up before the rest of us an hour and a half before dawn to prepare the food we would sleepily consume in the last half hour before the fast began.
My mother, a doctor with a strong interest in nutrition, was always sure to get as much protein into our systems as possible: there were scrambled and boiled eggs, fava beans slow-cooked the traditional Egyptian way, tuna salad. But there was always something for our teenage taste buds: My mother would wake us up with home-cooked french fries, still sizzling on the plate. Into our bedroom she would sweep, singing “wake up, wake up, your food has come to you” in a jolly voice, and as I rolled over on the top bunk to face her, I would find a handful of hot, salty fries stuffed into my mouth before my eyes were even open. It certainly was an effective tactic.
When we were younger, we would “fast” from breakfast until lunch and then from lunch until dinner, feeling for the first time what it was to have sustained hunger, to not cure it immediately with a stop at the fridge or the cupboard. The pangs in our stomachs would knot first, then twist, and there was something so satisfying about not succumbing, about defeating that part of ourselves that cried out to be served, to be given now now NOW!
Experience is learning, is knowledge, and the value of that knot in the pit of my stomach can never be underestimated. I knew, ever so briefly, what it was to want; knew the slight pain, the slight light-headedness that came with it; but more than anything, knew the gratitude of sunset, of taking that first sip of water, that first sweet bite of a date, sweet and soft and buttery, melting on my tongue. And as I got older, I knew too the gratitude of having that water, that date, having what so few have, and especially what so many everywhere can't reach: a fridge full of food; a house with a roof; a blanket to cover my bed; a loving mother who would wake up in the middle of the night to make sure her daughters were well-fed before the fast began.
My father broke his fast with a glass of hot milk, heated to the point of scalding in the microwave, nearly foaming at the top, and three or five dates to go along. It was my father who taught us the supplication to make when breaking our fast:
“Oh God, for you I have fasted, and from your blessings I have broken my fast, and on you I depend, and in you I believe”. And then each one of us would turn inward and think of what she wanted and pray a private prayer, just between her and God, before that first bite, that first sip. It could be anything: I would pray for a good grade on an upcoming test, for a class trip somewhere fun, to get out of babysitting that Friday at the mosque, for forgiveness for my sins – a rude word, a look of ridicule, the missing of one of the five daily prayers.
After the dates and milk we would pray our sunset prayer before having a proper meal, and there we would stand, my mother, my three sisters and I behind our father, reciting the Quran, choosing, somehow, the verses that would nudge our hearts that particular day, his words poetry, a calling to God.

I came across her writing

in a note on facebook, and though I hadn't seen her in a decade, though I couldn't quite place her location, her life, I felt I knew her essence again, could here her soft voice, her rising cadence, rushing forward, then retreating, as though each sentence was brought by the tide.
And I was transported to old coffee-houses during lit, to high school, to what was, oddly, my best writing time, the period in my life when I could, when I had the luxury, to bend over my notebook for seconds, turning into minutes, into hours, just to find the right word to fit the end of a line, a sentence, a feeling or thought.
I thought I was so tired then, so overworked, with my grade 11 lit and my algebra-geometry homework, with history and physics and world issues. I didn't know where I'd find the time to memorize Shakespeare and solve problems 3 a - i. I was overwhelmed.
It's almost laughable in hindsight, this emotion, this sense of purpose when I hadn't lived enough to have enough to write. And now, with something worth putting down, with my own stories, I am too afraid. If I share, will I be recognized? Do I want the recognition?
We are all afraid, have moments of defeat, of sadness or uncertainty, but we so rarely put them out there, so rarely want to use them as material.
I used to say, "I wrote this, but don't worry, I'm happy;" used to say, "don't worry, this isn't about me"; and usually it wasn't, but isn't life just a series of small joys and small disappointments building into larger moments? Isn't it normal in the day to have a moment where you don't have a clue, where you want to just stop? and then another where you could go and go and go to the ends of the round earth, where you would have to crash into a brick wall not to keep going?
She wrote about her life, and I could hear her in her words and I could see her brushing a wisp of straight black hair behind her ear as she read. I imagine one hand holding the paper, the other randomly reaching up to touch her head. Funny how we remember certain nervous habits, how her voice is still in my mind so many years later. How I can see her smile.
I told myself I wouldn't write for a living. I told myself I would write for life.

Once Again, he just says it so well

So, a few of days ago I was opining about how I was too hooked on technology, and then last night, I read this hilarious little gem from Scott Feschuk. I couldn't get through the last two paragraphs in one go because I was laughing so hard my eyes couldn't focus. I would LOVE to have this man's sense of humour. Since I don't, I'm point you straight to him for the article.

Books to Love

I've been able to get back into a reading groove, and I thought I would list out my current suggestions of good stuff to read if you like novels, in case anyone else is having difficulty finding goodness.
1-Bel Canto: By Ann Patchett. I've rambled on and on about this woman's brilliance and this book is currently my absolute favourite. Vivid, great characters, great story, great writing. I want to write a book like this (well, I just want to write a book, and beggars can't be choosers, but if I could have written any existing book, this is the one I would want in my name). I think the best word to describe the writing is 'lyrical'. Warning: you have to be up for a bit of sadness.
2- March: Little Women may be a classic, but every time I've tried to read it, I've found it absolutely insufferable. It's pretty ironic, then, that I loved this book about the father of those "Little Women" and his imagined experiences while he was away during the civil war. The character attempts to be so noble, it makes your heart ache. And yet it shows a lot of different view points: man vs. woman, north vs. south, black vs. white. A very different tone than Bel Canto, and, I thought, a harder book to read. But excellent.
3- The Book Thief: I'm reading this book about a little girl growing up with her foster parents in Germany in World War II. Her family is poor. They're also hiding a Jewish man in their basement. It's devastatingly sad, and yet the writing is so creative, and so lively and so so so different than anything else I've read in a very long time. You know the books that take "normal" things in childhood and magnify them and make them exceptional. This is one of those books. I can't put it down.
4- Catch 22: I read this sometime last year - borrowed off K's bookshelf, and I loved it. Set during the Vietnam war, following American soldiers. The best way to describe this book is irreverent and absurd. And so much fun in such a strange way.
5- The Glass Castle: This is a true story by Jeannette Walls, more of a biography than anything else, but it reads like a novel. Absolutely impossible to put down. You can't believe all of this happened to a real, modern day public figure.

Some general observations:
I seem to love books set during epic wars: WWII, Vietnam, you name it. I think just having those settings, something so huge that all of us are so aware of and devastated by in some capacity, lends these books a huge gravity, and helps us confirm all the tragedies of war. I do, however, find it sad that we don't seem to feel the same devastation towards the wars and battles and conflicts going on write now. It's like we can only ever see the human suffering in hindsight, and we tell ourselves 'lest we forget' even as we 'forget' the pain and loss of life happening in our time every day every minute every second. I wonder why we always have to look back before we admit wrong.
I also love books that go through whole lives and/or whole family histories. Another one that comes to mind is "Fall on Your Knees" by Anne-Marie MacDonald. She covers three generations of a family in the book. The plot is not a plot as such, but an entire lifespan. I completely admire people who can thread out such a long story.
I read the kind of books I wish I could write, in style and tone. This is why Ann Patchett appeals to me so much, because her writing is a similar style to mine, only a million times better. Same with Ann Marie MacDonald. Same with the author of The Book Thief. Maybe it's a bit self-centred, but the other reason I do it is because I am so impressionable, I start writing like whoever I'm reading, so it's easier to read in a similar style than a totally different one I have no hope of imitating.

Anyone with other good book suggestions? Next on my list are the Joseph Boyden books. He's Canadian, the books are about WWI and family relationships, and they've won awards. Right up my alley, I think.

100 Random Things About Noha

Inspired by COTW's list, which was apparently inspired by someone else's list, here is my own list of 100 random things about me.

1. I love parentheses. They were created for people like me who can't finish a though without launching into a second (and third) tangential thought.
2. Nested parentheses are even better
3. Sometimes I wish I had was a starving artist and the whole world read my writing and thought it was beautiful, instead of a gainfully employed civil servant working in IT
4. Most of the time, my practical side wins out and I am happy to have more than 1/2 a month's rent in my bank account, or be subsisting on beets. It's a romantic notion, but I'm actually not that romantic a person
5. I now love certain foods I was completely indifferent towards in my childhood (exhibit a: the date)
6. Though I fancy myself a creative person, I have very few original ideas. Most of what I say was read/heard/seen elsewhere first
7. I don't think this contradicts being creative
8. Songs are really just poems set to a tune. The ones with beautiful words can make me cry
9. I used to be afraid of daddy long legs.
10. I am still afraid of centipedes
11. I have a tendency to be very silly
12. I hate serious confrontation. It literally makes me sick to my stomach
13. My favourite people in the world are my family (hubby, parents, sisters, and all their kids, hubbies, families, etc.). We're close in ways most people I know find unreal.
14. When I was little, I could get so engrossed in books that two of my sister's could stand over me, insulting my favourite hockey player at the top of their lungs, and I wouldn't even hear them
15. Said player would be Doug Gilmour
16. There are teachers who I will never ever forget for how much they contributed to my childhood and by extension, my personality: Mr. Falls (6th grade), Mr. Knox (9th grade science), Mr. Fitzpatrick (9th to 11th grade lit), Mrs. Alexander (high school chemistry). I truly respect and admire these people, and if I knew where they were, I would walk up to them with a box of chocolate and say thank you.
17. I read Quran really well, but have a bit of difficulty reading regular Arabic, because the writers usually don't include the accents.
18. Strangers in Egypt can usually tell within 15 minutes that I'm not a native
19. My parents are my heroes
20. I constantly read other people's blogs and think - Man! How did she think of that great idea/phrase/concept?
21. I tend towards being very vibrant or very quiet. I have a small "in between" window.
22. I'm working on that
23. I'm addicted to coffee
24. Lately, I'm also liking tea
25. and ice cream
26. I am sometimes inexplicably sad for no reason.
27. When this happens, a conversation with one of my favourite people is usually in order to fix it
28. I took gymnastics as a child and still know how to do some of the stuff - cartwheels anyone?
29. I also did track and field, and usually made the team more on effort than on talent
30. I made the tennis team in 9th grade because not enough people tried out. My doubles partner and I lost every match. Badly
31. I LOVE water sports
32. My favourite place in the world is Calabogie lodge. Been going there with my favourite people in the world since I was 8 or 9. You can probably trace our family story by following our summer vacations through the years...
33. I used to write for at least an hour every day. Not always good, but forced quantity used to produce at least a bit of quality
34. I love The New Yorker
35. I love The Far Side
36. If there's a new alternative health craze out there, you can bet I've at least read about it, if not tried it in some capacity
37. I have a whole slew of food sensitivities, which I regularly ignore.
38. My favourite thing about Montreal is the bike paths that are all over the city. I'm the girl in the hijab you see biking all over the place in the spring/summer/fall downtown.
39. My favourite hockey team is the Montreal Canadiens, even though I was actually a Leaf's fan the last time they won a cup.
40. I get caught up in political stuff. I can't separate it from life or turn it off since I see how much it affects some people's lives. Maher Arar used to pray at the same place as my family in Ottawa before he was sent to Syria for a year of torture. I go to Egypt to visit extended family and I see the corruption everywhere (in non-collected garbage and crumbling buildings and taxi drivers complaining about how to make ends meet). It's impossible to close my eyes to this. Politics is life for the part of the world that isn't as lucky as the other part (aka, us).
41. I get very upset at injustice, whether to me, or those I know and love, or strangers.
42. I have a good memory for useless trivia
43. I have three handwritten unfinished novels in notebooks under my bed. My younger sister, aka my audience, has yet to forgive me for leaving her hanging.
44. I cry a lot. Not because I'm easily sad, but because I'm easily moved.
45. If you have a cough, drink Gollum Juice.
46. Also, Oregano oil is the most disgusting tasting thing on earth, but insanely healthy and good for germ-killing.
47. I am the run-on sentence's biggest supporter.
48. My ability to sleep has nothing to do with the noise/light situation around me. The position of my neck and something to use as a pillow though? Absolutely necessary. On my weekly bus rides, I have devised ingenious pillow variations.
49. I know random small talk in Russian, Swedish, and German.
50. I am trilingual (English, Arabic, French)
51. I LOVE names and their origins.
52. Also, trying to figure out what language someone is speaking when I don't recognize it (is that Polish? Russian? Croatian?)
53. I am currently buying books way faster than I can read them.
54. I have a very low tolerance for heels, or anything that hurt the soles of my feet.
55. I have chronic back and neck pain from a dislocated rib/neck incident in 9th grade. It sounds sinister, but it came about in the most mundane of ways. Also, slightly embarrassing.
56. I've gotten stitches on multiple occasions, but never broken a bone or needed a cast (yet!)
57. If I'm reading a book by an author, my writing (if I'm writing at the time) inevitably takes that author's tone/style.
58. I started writing to be like my older sister, who is also my best friend.
59. Whenever I hear a song/poem I like, I immediately email it to said sister. Given she has two little ones under 4 (my Little Angela and Little Angela) her inbox is probably overflowing with these emails.
60. My favourite blog is by this lovely Canadian woman living in India with her husband and children. Moving. Funny. Exceptionally written.
61. I can't draw to save my life
62. I can, however, cook. I make up my own recipes.
63. I never thought I'd be a good cook and am mildly proud (and surprised) of this accomplishment.
64. I get a lot of joy from reading Scott Feschuk's hilarious columns in MacLean's Magazine.
65. I feel like we're living in a very momentous time in history. I think that over the next few years, the world will change a lot.
66. I hope they're good changes
67. I want to be part of it.
68. I love looking at beautiful pictures.
69. CBC Radio 1 is absolutely awesome.
70. Bel Canto is the most amazing book.
71. I second guess myself a lot
72. I buy recipe books, look through them once, and then rarely go back.
73. My husband continuously befuddles me with his ability to do 4 page mathematical proofs. I happily left these behind in 1st year university.
74. I have been an A+ student my whole life.
75. I never took biology because I was too easily disgusted. The bit of dissection we had to do in general science never ended well for me.
76. and yet I can prepare meat without problems.
77. I am a wannabe health freak.
78. I am also a wannabe environmentalist.
79. My favourite verse in the Quran is the second last verse of the Chapter called The Cave: Say, "If the ocean were ink (wherewith to write out) the words of my Lord, sooner would the ocean be exhausted than would the words of my Lord, even if we added another ocean like it, for its aid."
80. I am a big believer in always remembering that you don't know everything (or even most things)
81. I love chocolate, but also salad.
82. I love Canada fiercely, but I make a distinction between love and pride for my country and criticism of it.
83. I get homesick easily when I travel.
84. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy is perfectly up my alley when it comes to humour.
85. Corny jokes are also brilliant.
86. Jon Stewart is a genius. Also Tina Fey as Sarah Palin and any political sketches on SNL
87. This one is stolen with modifications from COTW's list: I would happily take a job at the Ministry of Silly Walks.
88. I love calla lilies and irises.
89. I want to go to New Zealand some day for a very nature oriented vacation (hiking, rafting, etc)
90. I have seen the Pacific Ocean and the Mediterranean sea, but not the Atlantic.
91. My favourite season is summer, but I think winter is extremely pretty.
92. I didn't have a cell phone until a year ago, and now I can't live without it.
93. I can go on a small amount of sleep, but I become either silly-hyper from too much coffee, or somewhat cranky.
94. My toes are the first part of me to get cold. Once this happens, I become extremely cranky.
95. My sisters and I are all daddy's girls. He used to whisk us off to Timmy's for warm, sweet treats every chance he got when we were still in university.
96. I love to sit in small cafes with a hot cup of coffee, either reading a good book, people watching, or trying to write.
97. My favourite place to do so is Planet Coffee in Ottawa. I'm still looking for my *favourite* place in Montreal.
98. I am still very close a couple of my closest friends from high school, though we almost never see each other.
99. Everyday I get to know M better, I am amazed by new similarities I discover between us. Deeper ones that didn't surface before.
100. I miss carrying my Little Angels and Little Angelas around, hugging and kisses them to bits, giving them horsey rides and other invented silly games. I can't wait to see them again in a few months when they all converge at my parents' house.

Lost Conversations

I wanted you
On the other end of the telephone
Through the words
I hadn’t been speaking
Barely been thinking
(it’s dangerous to think the thoughts you can’t say
Dangerous to go to the places in your mind
You won’t be able to open
And stand outside
And look and wait
Because
What happens next?
You will try to break down the door
And go inside
You will try to force it
And there will be sirens
And there will be riot police
And there will be fines or worse
To pay)

I wanted you
At 7 p.m. on the bus
In my ear
Ideally in the seat beside me
In some other life
When you still rode buses
In some other life
Before the strollers and the car seats

And then my eyes were closing
My breathing slowing
And the dream already forgotten but at least carrying off
With it the aching
The longing

This started with a song
(or two or twenty)
That I have to have you hear
With your little angel’s fleece hoodie
In my closet
Discovered while cleaning
And calling 9-11
And triggering the sirens
In my mind

Let's Play 5 Questions!

So, the latest Blog "meme" comes via XUP, and is called 5 questions. She did such a great job explaining how it works on her blog, so I'm just going to go ahead and steal the instructions:

It’s kind of a fun interview exercise because fellow bloggers can email you asking to join in and then you have to email them back 5 interview questions - things you’d like to know specifically about them. Then they answer the questions on their blog and invite other bloggers to join in which means they have to come up with 5 questions for those bloggers. Get it? (Complete instructions are at the end of this post).

On with the show. Here are the questions XUP posed to me, as well as my answers (as usual, extremely run-on-sentency).

1. As a Muslim and a woman in Canada, do you face any additional challenges in the workplace and/or socially?
   I really think that if you want to look at them as "challenges", you could, but that in essence, we live is such a pluralistic society that it's hard to say there's a "standard" any more, so I probably face as many challenges as anyone else, except mine can be categorized under one lump sum of "this is because she's Muslim"... For example, I don't drink, nor do I attend social events where alcohol will be served. What this means is that if I'm going out to dinner with some friends, no one at the table can order a drink... At work, I'll skip the group lunches if I know that some of my colleagues are going to be drinking, but we end up doing a lot of "in office potlucks" instead, and the formal lunches are only 1 or 2 times a year. A few of my good friends from high school and university have gotten married recently, and for their weddings, I attended the ceremonies, but not the receptions, because of the alcohol thing. I explained it to them and they didn't mind. The important thing was to see them on their special day in some way or another.
   Honestly, I don't mind. I probably face more challenges dealing with other things that make me unique or different, like my food sensitivities (try avoiding wheat, dairy, and sugar in an office that ADORES all of the above. I have no will power. I break down. I eat it. I get sick. I chide myself and promise I'll never do it again... And then someone buys a box of Laura Secord Chocolates and puts them next to the photocopier that afternoon, and it's breakdown of will power all over. You get the drift).
   Other adjustments? I pray 5 times a day, but I'm pretty flexible about the specifics. If the nurse's room is in use, or we've got a lot of back to back meetings, I'll just use my office.
   I've had the very very rare situation pop up where someone is down right discriminatory, but then who hasn't? If I wasn't Muslim (and Arab: double-whammy!) I'm sure it would be something else, like sexism, or some other form of discrimination. Honestly, I've been a minority for so long that it's what I'm most comfortable with. I don't think any of it is insurmountable. You just have to explain to people why you're doing "thing x" some other way...
   
2. You commute regularly between Ottawa and Montreal. If you both could have the same or better jobs in the same city, which one would you choose to live in?
   Hmmm... I have to say that right now, even though commuting is hard, I get the best of both worlds. I live in downtown Montreal and get to work at home 2 days of the week, and I live in the 'burbs in Ottawa and work in downtown the other 3 weekdays. I love the vibe of Montreal. I love the vibrant spirit that's just there. I love the "bigness" of it. But I love the quiet of Ottawa, and the kind of unobtrusive beauty, and until last February, Ottawa was my whole life. The overwhelming majority of important memories in my life took place in Ottawa. My sisters and I tobogganing in our back yard in our old house in the winters when we were little; biking with my dad in the summers along the Ottawa river bike paths; going to the Public Library as a teen and coming home with more novels than I could carry; babysitting at the mosque on Fridays; going to Canterbury High School and finding out there that, no matter what I did with my "working hours" in my life, I would always really be a writer; there are too many... Ottawa will always be home. If my husband could work there, I would probably choose to live there. That said, I'm sure my parents missed Egypt like crazy when they moved to Canada for my dad to finish his PhD. and that was over 35 years ago.
   
3. What is the hardest decision you've ever had to make all on your own?
   This is the hardest question. I put off answering this meme while I tried to think of an answer for this, and the bottom line is that I couldn't come up with anything profound at all because any hard decision I have to make, I don't make on my own. I'm very fortunate that some of the people closest to me are actually exceptional people that others look up to and seek out for advice constantly, and that are only ever, at worst, a phone call away. Case in point: my parents. My mother has been part of every big decision I've ever made. She's a details person, and she will sit through every last point and review things until I'm no longer lost. My father is a great sounding board, and when he's done listening to me rant about something, he can usually, in one or two sentences, give me a "grand scheme of things" reminder that helps clarify my position and re-orients me. My sisters are all incredibly supportive and know me insanely well. My husband is super-patient, non-pushy, and brings to my decisions a different perspective since, unlike everyone else I've listed, he hasn't lived in my immediate family unit for the last 25 years. I know this sounds like I'm gushing about these people ridiculously, but it's the truth. And while they'll all tell you I'm a bit stubborn and hard-headed when I want something (albeit using nicer words), it's usually when I want something small, like a chocolate bar, or to watch movie X instead of movie Y.
   So, the hardest decision I ever made on my own? Pretty anti-climactic, but it was probably to go to Arts Canterbury High School for the Literary Arts program, even though it would mean an extra 2 hours on the bus each day, and an extra hour at school, for 4 years. And even that, I asked what my family thought about it. If you want something COMPLETELY independent, it would be something ridiculously minuscule, like buying a bike. Not a hard decision.
   
4. What is there about you that you think makes you just a little bit different from anyone else you know?
   I have a ridiculous memory for completely useless trivia facts and words/lyrics. Anything from the fact that retired hockey player Dave Andreychuk and my uncle have the same birthday (September 29th) to lyrics of "Over my head" by the Fray, to the lyrics of a spoof version of Bohemian Rhapsody that Flogo posted on their website during the 2004 Presidential election, to whole sections of dialogue from Lord of the Rings. I'll correct my sister if she's singing a song and changes some obscure line by one word in the bridge... Also, I have yet to meet another Muslim woman who loves hockey as much as I do.
   
5. You are granted 10 minutes to go back in time, meet up with one person and tell them something. Who would it be and what would you tell them?
   I thought about going back to some famous historical figure and telling them something that could have changed the outcome of the world, but I wrote this off because it strikes me as hubris, and I just don't' think that little old me, given ten minutes, could really accomplish some huge, global thing. So, I'll go for something more personal.
   I'd go back in time to when my maternal grandmother was alive and tell her thank you and how much I love and appreciate her. She lived in Egypt for almost all of her life, but came to stay with my mom when my mom was pregnant with my sisters and I, and we formed a very very tight bond. When I was a baby, she called me her little Cinderella and wouldn't let me sleep in the crib (which caused all sorts of "adjustments" when she had to go back to Egypt and I was used to cooing in the bed with a grown up. She'd make sure my older sister didn't jump on the bed if I was napping. When she came back for the birth of my younger sister, I was already so used to her that she mostly took care of me to free up my mom for my younger sister.
   She came back and stayed with us again for about a year when I was around 10, but I don't think I truly realized just how much she did for us. I loved her, but I loved to go out and play more, and by then, she wasn't as mobile. The next couple of times I saw her on visits to Egypt, she was getting older and starting to forget things. But she had a beautiful, warm heart, and it wasn't until after she died by a few years that I really, truly thought about her more deeply as her own person and not as simply my grandmother. I'd tell her that I included her in my prayers every day, and I'd give her a hug.

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