Hey

Hey, are you here? I’m writing here as my last resort. I’m almost at my worst. My therapist canceled our session yesterday and is not replying to my messages for an urgent session this week; it be in person or online.

I can feel it coming, the anxiety blackout, and I am terrified. I am trying to binge-watch Modern Family-which I highly recommend-but I need help. I need urgent help before it’s too late and before everything I have worked so hard on shatters before my eyes. I am in major need of an experienced consultant to help me make this life-changing decision, to help me think.

I am so sleep-deprived, I am barely eating, and I am always nauseous, crippling fear is quickly sneaking through every inch of my body, and anxious discomfort is taking over.

I cannot work. I spent all day researching psychologists that my insurance covers, psychologists that my insurance does not cover but are available today or tomorrow, online consultations, and therapy sessions. I cannot focus on anything, I feel an enormous storm coming my way, and I really don’t think I can survive it.

Help. I don’t know how you can help me because if you reached out to me, I will not disclose anything to you. I will not tell you what is going on; I will not tell you about my problem; I will not share my feelings and emotions.

So how can you help me? I don’t know. I’m asking the impossible, but I know that I am in desperate need of help, and I need anything to hold me still. I’m having an extremely hard time thinking about anything, about anyone.

I’ve had awful moments this week, yet I have not cried once, I have not even allowed myself to feel. I am too scared to cry; I am too scared to talk; I am too scared to face my feelings and decisions because I know if I faced them outside therapy, the blackouts will come back, more vicious than before. I am literally walking on eggshells and I don’t know how much longer I can do that, but I don’t feel long.

So help. I don’t know if there is any way you can help that I haven’t thought of, but please help me. Maybe you know a therapist that can see me today or tomorrow? I don’t know, but I do know I’m very scared, and it’s not easy to ask for help, so this is technically a cry out of desperation.

Hoping, praying, for better days and nicer feelings.

Palestine, my dearly beloved

Palestine, you’ve possessed me in every way possible. I have always been attached to you, your cause, your people, your suffering, but lately, I have grown more attached to an instinct where I weep for your children, and I feel a personal responsibility to fill my day with you; new of you, photos of you, videos, books, and writings.

Palestine, I am spending my days thinking of you, reading about you, following your news on social media. I have grown so attached to the point that hours would pass, and I would do nothing but research you and track your steps, your deaths, your triumph.

Yesterday was my first day out of the house since last week. Last week, during Eid, you were the spoiled child of my holiday. I dressed you up in the prettiest keffiyeh, and I held your hand close to my heart all week long, I talked about you with my aunts and cousins, and I listened to the music that glorifies you.

I watched over your lands, and I looked at the sky, and I was so proud to share a sky so close to yours.

As I was in a village close to your borders, the sound of bombs hitting your children felt like it was hitting me, burning my skin; I wished it were me that is bombed and not you. I felt like hearing the sounds of bombs was one step closer to stand beside you, and even though it was burning my skin, I did not want to leave.

Yesterday, as I had to work from the office, and even though it was a lovely day at the office, I made sure to talk about you. And then I marched the streets of Beirut saluting you, and as I went out for shawarma after, I made sure you are present and alive in our talks and discussion. Palestine, despite all your deaths and pain, I tried to protect you and keep you warm and hopeful; I kept you alive within me.

And even though your shadow lingered around the whole day, I felt cold because I felt far from you. The whole time, I just wanted to go back home, go back to you; I felt so empty that I could not track your news, I felt so scared that something-worse-might happen to you and I’m not there.

Palestine, you have haunted me. With your bravery and resistance amid the most horrifying casualties and rubbles, you are living in me stronger than ever. I give my all to you, body and soul, and I hope to be part of the power that will liberate you. Maybe that way I can be free. I hope you set me free one day.

“Mum, please don’t leave me alone.”

I cannot stop watching the video of the guy pleading for help under the wreckage as he hears his mum heavily breathe, clutching for air, and begs her not to leave him. “Mum, Mum, Mum,” he keeps saying, begging her to stay alive.

Ya Allah, how can we move on with our lives after this? How am I expected to normally go back to my life as children lose their mothers and brothers lose their sisters? How can we stop crying and live in a world a few kilometers away from destruction and genocide?

The mother and son were rescued from under the debris, both alive and doing well, but the father didn’t make it. Yet, some are not as lucky, and the son might not remain as lucky as death lingers by in every corner of Gaza, and even if they are okay today, they may die tomorrow.

How can we move past this? I don’t feel like I can breathe. My days are spent listening to Palestinian-resistance songs and reading about Palestine, watching videos of the massacres and the previous wars, and I feel distraught, haunted, hand tight.

I want to help; I need to help. My tears won’t save the children from the fallen building, but I need to do something, anything. I need to be somewhere, anywhere but here.

When the 2006 war ended, I was almost nine years old, and I cried every day because I was too scared to lose my mum. I had a friend at school that lost her mum and siblings in the war, and the idea that that could’ve been me killed me.

For months, I cried out of fear and agony, and I would not let mum leave the house without me. I lived through daily terror, and I did not even lose any of my relatives or friends, but the children of Gaza are not as lucky.

I remember once my friend with the dead mum asked me; “do you love to have your mum dead?” to which I misheard and thought she said: “do you live your mother to death?” and I said: of course! But then I understood her question and it left me in horror.

Here I am, in the comfort of my bed, with a high fever, because of the COVID-19 vaccine I was lucky to get. Here I am with a headache not because of the loud sounds of bombings and murder, but because of a luxury that protects me from sickness when the people of Palestine are not even protected from death. Here I am, with both of my parents alive and healthy, while a child is committing suicide in Gaza because he lost all his family.

I know it’s not common to remember events from when we were 3 years old, and I really do not remember anything from my early childhood, except for the recurring nightmares of Israel. I was 3 when the South was liberated, and I can still clearly remember when my dad would take us to Naqoura to see the land we so proudly belong to.

I still remember the feeling of being scared as my dad would get lost on the way back, and we would think we might end up in an Israel-occupied land.

I still remember the recurring dreams of being stuck in a field full of landmines, of Zionists invading my home and us hiding behind the door, of my mum being imprisoned for doing nothing.

As for the 2006 war, my sister and I suffered from PTSD for almost two years; major fear of darkness and being alone, waking up in the middle of the night crying and sleeping next to each other on one small bed, and the piercing anguish of losing my mum. My little cousin, who was 4 at the time, would sometimes sleep over at our place, and she would cry to sleep because she was so scared to close her eyes because she thought “they will come and take off her pupils.”

I don’t remember much from my childhood, but I remember the fear. I remember the trauma of waking up scared of losing a parent, or a sister, or a body part, for a crime we didn’t commit, for a reality we never asked for. They took away our innocence, our childhood, and are still taking away the childhood of Gaza; they are taking away the children of Gaza.

Ya Allah, is there an end to this pain?

Yet the poor fellows think they are safe! They think that the war is over! Only the dead have seen the end of war.

The international body’s biggest failure

It pains me to be waiting for over a week now for a firm step forward towards the aggression of the terrorists in Palestine, because I trust the system, and because I have looked up at the system and the international body since I was young, believing in the salvation and the formation of a body of human rights that protects the weak and vulnerable.

And I am still waiting, because I cannot bear to read the atrocious statements that not only do not condemn the 73 years of terrorism, but also calls for an ‘equal’ ‘cease’ of fire. I refuse to fathom that this is what the international entity chose to do in response to the violent attacks on stone-throwers and penniless youths.

It is a stab in the heart to read a ‘neutral’ statement that calls for peace and civil security, weighing heavily on diplomacy but siding with the aggressors. As if when faced with apartheid, you get to choose to side in between.

Of all the international human rights courses I have taken, they have admitted to many mistakes done by the bureaucratic organization, including Rwanda and Iraq, but never mention Palestine.

As if all resolutions and international laws ‘endorsed’ have been so successful, as if the sieges and the sanctions and the murders have been long stopped by the mythical charter. Even Plato would laugh at the idealism.

As a journalist student, I have idolized, religiously, the men and women of the pen, those who were killed for writing, those who threatened the oppressors so much that the enemy decided to eradicate them, those who killed using words and figures more than bullets ever could.

I stand here remembering Ghassan Kanafani and Naji Al Ali, struggling to keep Handala alive in everything in me, holding my Handala necklace close to my heart and the real cartoon under my pillow; I am fighting for the ten years old boy that has not grown since the exodus, the boy who looks down at the human rights international entities in dismay.

I sit here, 15mins away from where Kanafani and his little niece were murdered, unarmed, in the middle of my city. He never used a gun, never held a rifle, he had his pen and a typewriter and he frightened the nation of thousands armymen.

To dismiss the international laws, charters, and resolutions is a habit we have normalized. If the international entities really think that what is happening in the land of merciless does not violate the human/e laws, let us remember the one law that matters most: resolution 194, the right of return.

Adopted in 1948, not only does resolution 194 stresses the importance of Palestinians returning to their homes-not lands, homes-but that “compensation should be paid for the property of those choosing not to return and for loss of or damage to property which, under principles of international law or equity, should be made good by the Governments or authorities responsible”

73 years of violations, yet the international societies remain perturbed. It is sickening to the bone that not only is resolution 194 thrown to the mud, but settlers now dare to occupy the homes of Palestinians, 73 years later, and we remain unfazed. How cruel the world is to be so good at human rights in writing but never in practice.

I remain hopeful of the system I belong to; I remain hopeful because I believe in the better good. I believe in the salvation of the nations and the eradication of starvation and poverty and injustice. I am ignited by the yearning for a painless world where children are happy, so I need to believe in an earthly system that is also working to achieve this.

To end this, I will forever recommend you read Ghassan Kanafani because he is the only one who does not romanticize the cause; he tells you the story from all sides, the ugly and the right ones.

To feel – a feeling never shared

“To feel” Disclaimer: I am going through my drafts and posting unpublished posts. This may be written a month ago, or years back, so no need to link this to a face you know (or even to you).

I’m jealous of a place only because you are in it without me. I’m jealous of the place that gets to spend time with you, that gets to see you when I am only damned to a few hours with you. I am jealous of the time that passes that you don’t talk to me in.

Do you ever get that feeling? That even though you just saw this person, you still can’t get enough of them. And you don’t know if it’s reciprocal. I don’t know if you feel the same way, or if you lust for extra time with me, or not. I know you like spending time with me, but lately I’ve been feeling too much and a little more than I want to.

I just want to see you more. I want you to talk to me now and always. I want to see you, a lot it’s killing me. I know I just saw and talked to you a few hours back, and I know I saw you this week more than usual, but I want to see you more. I want you to look at me as you do, and talk to me as you do, I want to make your eyes smile and make you laugh.

I want you to be here with me. Talk to me, tell me everything. I’m listening. I always listen to everything you say, and even if I was not as focused at the moment, I replay the whole conversation in my head when I’m alone thinking of you and thinking of how much I want to know more.

I have a sudden urge to tell you everything, tell you how I am feeling and tell you I want to see you more. What could go wrong? You not wanting to see me? Would you do that? Would you keep distance? I don’t want to scare you, I don’t really want anything of you, just a few extra days of being with you, is that too much to ask for?

The thing is, I don’t even know what I’m feeling. I’ve been in love before, and this is not how it felt like. You’re just extremely safe. Today at my coldest moment, the only person I could think of to keep me safe was you. I haven’t felt this way about you for a while, but today as I watched you do your thing, and as you left me and as I lived through anxious moments, I only thought of you.

I don’t know what I’m feeling, but I know that I love everything about you. My favorite thing is your smile, you talking to me, and your smell. Oh God, your smell. I could think of your smell for hours.

Please, let me see you this week. Let us talk. Ask to see me, because I’m too proud to ask. Please ask to see me, I’m begging you. Right now, at the moment, there is nothing I want more than to see you in a few days. Please. If I don’t see you this week, I won’t see you in two weeks, and this pains me.

For whom the bell tolls

For whom the bell tolls – The enchanting yet haunting memories of war are so uncanny that it is sickening to the bones. As I watched documentaries of the Lebanese civil war, I came across a heart-wrenching documentary on the Siege of Sarajevo. The documentary follows the lives of journalists covering the war from the Holiday Inn, a hotel in the middle of the hellfire.

At one point, journalists stopped wearing their press vests and helmets around civilians because they felt like it would be unfair to be protected while covering innocent and unprotected civilians who would most likely be shot at any moment.

One American journalist, Kurt Schork, captured the moment a couple died from bullets while hugging each other on a bridge. The couple is referred to now as Bosnia’s Romeo and Juliet, and the image of the couple haunted Schork until he died while covering conflicts in Sierra Leone.

The two bodies embracing on the streets of war and murder stirs the trauma, the agony, and the nightmares of many, including Schork, who had half of his cremated ashes buried next to the couple in Sarajevo as his wishes.

Bosko and Admira were childhood streets, dying in the embrace of one another nine years since they first fell in love. Bosko was a Serb, a Christian, and Admira was from Bosnia, a Muslim. Their family members either died in the conflict or fled away to safer zones, but Bosko and Admira decided to remain in Sarajevo until it got too much risky for both, and they both agreed it would be wise to escape the gunfires.

As agreed upon by both war parties, Bosko and Admira were to cross the Vrbanja Bridge, which was a No Man’s land, and no one will shoot until they cross safely.

As the Bosko and Admira crossed the bridge, a sniper opened fire, killing Bosko on the spot and fatally wounding Admira. Seeing her loved one lying dead, Admira crawled closer to Bosko, where she laid her head on his corpse and wait until death takes her away. Several days passed without anyone burying the body, as the bridge was considered a No Man’s Land until Schork was struck by the tragedy of two people lying dead next to each other on the same bridge that Suada and Olga died protesting the war before it started.

Normalize the sadness of others

Normalize the sadness of others – People are often too scared to acknowledge their sadness in public or express it in any way, in fear of what others may say/think/feel. We cry silently at night, wipe our tears in the morning, put on heavy concealer and mascara, or blame the puffy eyes on sleep deprivation.

We smile and laugh the whole day long, even if all we are thinking of are ways to die. We joke about other people’s sadness, might even call them dramatic or over-sharers, because normalcy is to suppress mental health and attack the ones who show it.

It is okay to be sad in public; this should never be labeled as attention-seeking or inconsiderate. You get to feel, you literally get to feel.

It pains me to see people roll their eyes at other people’s sadness or call it “cheesy”, we are humans, and emotions are part of who we are, and everyone is entitled to feel as free as they want.

My teen years were not my brightest days, my therapist says I had major depression with suicidal ideation and PTSD, but I never really showed it outside the few steps of my room. My best friend, the family, had a little sense, but no one really knew how hard it was to wake up in the morning and survive.

All the crap about “it will get better” or “you’ll look back years later sitting next to your loving husband and child and regret…” did nothing. I did not want it to get better, and I did not a husband or a child or a future or happiness. I just want it all to end.

I had a really close friend who I really enjoyed talking to, and we grew close because it was easy to talk to him, and he made me laugh a lot. There was a time where the darkness in me and around me was just too much to handle, and I started sharing a little about what was happening, telling him that I don’t really feel like talking right now or telling him bits and pieces of my suffering. We suddenly stopped talking, and months went by, and I missed him. I texted him once and asked him what happened between us, to which he replied, “you got too depressing for me.”

Since then, I vowed that not only will I not share my sufferings, but also never show them. I felt ashamed of my sadness, something that makes me unwanted and drives people away from me, and I never wanted that. I thought that it would be easier to let it kill me in silence than let it kill me out loud.

But that was not true. I was literally dying, and I could not tell anyone. The pain was unendurable, especially for a 16 years old, there was nothing that made it go away, and all I could do was sit with no lights and cry until my throat hearts. A year before, at 15, I chose to recluse myself from everything and everyone, leaving myself with only two friends and the a growing heavy upon my shoulders.

Years later, and as I volunteered with Embrace and learned so much about mental health, I realized that the single most important thing in recovery is acknowledging feelings and sharing them. There is a whole other world in sharing, and I cannot stress enough how much this can help in recovery. Sometimes sharing fears and feelings in a safe place with incredible support is all the therapy we need to prosper and get out of the bleak abyss.

But how are we going to share if feelings are labeled and judged upon? How are we to share if feelings are considered an opposite to masculinity and femininity is equivalent to the concept of a drama queen?

We need to normalize feelings, to support those who want to share yet feel obliged to crack a joke after being too emotional or talk about personal mental health issues with a smirk, laughing nervously, and looking all around in fear that someone might be laughing.

Please encourage people when they try to tell you about a certain bad mood or a mental disorder, do not shrug them or call them any shameful name, whether it’s a guy or a gal, they deserve a safe environment where they are comfortable enough to vent and put aside a little of the heavyweight they are probably carrying.

When you dismiss people’s troubles and undermine what they are feeling, you contribute to feeding the monster within them, which will reflect on their personalities and behaviors and contribute to their bad life decisions and the already tolling society.

Let us normalize sadness in public; if anyone approached us saying that they are sad, let us make sure they are heard, and they are loved, and that even though we may not help in any way, we acknowledge their feelings and are there for them. A healthy society starts with mental health, and if therapy is too stigmatized or overprized, we need to start to create internal safety and cheaper places for recovery.

No one deserves to suffer in silence; no one deserves to be lonely while the millions of conflicting shards of pain stab his or her heart at night.

If you’re not comfortable talking to a close person, talk to a stranger. Embrace’s helpline is 1564, and I promise you, they will help. Please don’t give up on yourself, not yet, at least. I love you, and even though you may think no one loves you, I promise you somebody does, and somebody will, because you are beautiful and because you deserve to be loved.

I hope you never know this is about you

I hope you never know this is about you – There were times when I wanted you closer, even though you were sitting right next to me. There were times when I looked in your eyes and listened to every word you said and I wanted you to talk more and I wanted this moment to be longer than it was, a moment, and stay there.

There were times when I was at my most vulnerable, and you staggered around me and chose to linger by. There were times where you chose me over everyone, leaving them waiting and decided to be with me, and it touched my empty heart. There were times when my guts were burning, and my heart was throbbing, and my head was twinging, and you walked by and silenced all the voices with a random story about goats and yogurt. 

There were times when I wanted to share my sadness yet I remembered you are my happy place and sharing my sadness with you meant letting you in to my life and I didn’t want to let you in, I wanted you to remain a happy place outside the sadness, I wanted you to still  see me as innocent and far rather than see the darkness that feed upon me.

Most of the people in my life walk away once they get closer, because they can’t bear my sadness. I never force anyone to bear anything, but they linger by and insist on being closer to me, and then I share and stand there bear and show the colors of my sadness, and they decide it’s too much for them, so they leave and I remain there, naked and exposed. “You got too depressive for me,” some said, and others thought.

And I didn’t, don’t, want that to happen with you. I want you to stay where you are, and I don’t want you outside that frame, because I know how this might go, and I know this might end.

We started as casual talkers, laughing at my childish behavior and your smart talk. Then you decided you wanted to know me more, then you decided you want to spend all your free time with me, and now even though you have no time to spend with me, you still choose me.

You ask all the right questions, and you look straight into my soul with your wide eyes and your dentist-like smile waiting to hear me out, and it makes me feel very special for a moment or two until I remember that it’ll probably won’t stay like this for long.

You’ll probably shorten your time with me, not because I don’t mean anything to you, but because it meant to me more than it meant to you. Or I’ll probably share with you my sadness, and you don’t deserve that kind of responsibility, and you’ll probably leave me be.

The thing is, I want to share you, I want to show you off. I want to tell more stories that define you and specifics that happened like the stories you tell me and our incidents and shenanigans. Yet, I fear of a moment of weakness, where I get too stupid and share this blog with you, and you read this and sit there frightened to your core, because this was never your means and intentions, and you never wanted to read about yourself on somebody’s depressive blog. 

And I don’t want that. This is why I’ll keep you in the frame I have put you in, this is why I won’t allow myself to think of you outside that frame, I won’t allow you outside, I won’t allow you close. I won’t call you a friend, I won’t put a label on you and I will not talk about you to many people.

That way if you left, for whatever reason, it’ll be okay, and I’ll still cherish you and I’ll remember your laugh and smart jokes and think to myself, ‘even though he’s not in my life anymore, and even though his memories are pretty, I am not upset because he did not leave because of my sadness, and I respect anyone leaving for anything except that.

My friends are coming over today

My friends are coming over today – Sorry for not posting as much as before; I think starting today and until the end of summer, I will be writing less. I can write when I’m happy and sad, but never when I’m agitated, and summer is where my agitation devilishly thrives.

I finished all my to-do lists today, with extra chores assigned for later and I finished a deadly deadline before due time ;), and I still have 15 minutes to spare. I could go home early, sulk in the ‘spring warmth,’ and prepare for my friends coming over for iftar, but I thought to barf some randomness here.

The thing is, in Ramadan, I never know if what I’m feeling is really what I’m feeling or if it is the effect of lack of food. I know that in the meantime, I’m not really a big fan of work, as the hours in Ramadan seem doubled and tripled, and right now, the one day at the office feels like 56 hours.

I know that I’m thrilled to see my friends tonight, even though I saw them on Saturday, and even though I don’t see them as much as I used to, and as much as I want, I love them beyond words.

They are the only safety left for me amid all the uncertainty, throughout all my fears, worries, and inane dilemmas; seeing them has always been the escape from the world I live in, and I am grateful they are still in my life, or at least most of them.

One of them is now in Canada, so we usually Facetime her whenever we’re together, and we talk about the most random of things and laugh at nothing in particular. In these times of insecurity and feeling like the biggest part of my life is falling before, I long for their presence near me as they are now my only sense of grounding.

What are we having for iftar?

I’m glad you asked! See, two years ago, I invited the same friends over for iftar, and one of them requested kibbet batata. My mum made it, and he loved it so much! Ever since, every time we are invited to anyone’s place, they always make him kibbet batata, sometimes even for breakfast. This year mum thought to break the habit and make kibbet banadoura 🙂

Other than that, we’ll be making Cajun chicken pasta, which quickly climbed its way to one of my favorite food, and kabseh (rice), along with the usual appetizers. Also, my mum makes the single GREATEST zucchini soup, but every time we tell people about it, they all have that same ‘yuck’ expression on their face, so what we will be doing today is that we will encourage them to eat this green creamy soup without telling them what it is, and after they love it, we will disclose the truth!

What else?

Well, I remain forever grateful. I thank my God for the life I was given and the people I have in my life. One of my close friends is an artist, and he just finished a huge memorial for the victims of the Beirut Blast, paying tribute by hand-drawing their portraits and giving them center stage in Downtown Beirut.

I have been supporting him with the project since January, and yesterday, he went live on TV to say that because of me, he did not quit, and he actually went with it after my insistence, even though there were so many times where he was hesitant.

I am grateful to be part -even if it’s almost negligible- of the impact he has created for the families. I am grateful for the minimal impact I may have on the world. I am grateful for a world so beautiful, yet it lets me live within.