Christmasing

Oh, it begins. The happy, perfect families Christmasing videos and photos on my Facebook newsfeed. Not that I have anything against it –

But.

So you’re nearing forty

Spent most of your twenties building a career

Most of your thirties building a nice family –

You know – the whole works:

A nice house with a garden

Two kids – preferably a boy and a girl.

Your wife’s most important attributes to you –

Her beauty, housekeeping abilities, and exquisite taste in fashion.

So why not parade your happy, perfect family Christmasing on Facebook?

But.

Somewhere – along the way,

Something snapped.

Something went wrong.

You followed all the rest.

Because that’s how things are done

And this is how you’re supposed to live your life.

So –

Why is that spark in your eyes extinguished?

Why can I see a smile on your lips,

But

Not in your eyes?

- khulud خلود

memories are like a drawer of socks

The fact that I live in a conflict zone and am a feminist activist does not mean that I should only write on political issues. So here's something not political in any way, unless you can politicize socks :)

The drawer has a finality to it. A limited number of socks can be stored in it. Once every few months, I go through the socks. It's a habit I picked up somewhere along the way, without ever being aware of its circularity, or the fact that it has become a habit. Tonight I went out for a run. It's my quiet time with my thoughts. What I love about it is the surprise element. I can plan on a certain idea I'm stuck with in writing, and then go for a run in the hope that it will facilitate the flow of a fresh perspective. Tonight I planned on thinking about the article I started writing last night about the "Politics of Identity." The first half a page free-flowed. Then it got stuck. When the writing resists, I don't force it. Anyway, I'm deviating from the subject. One kilometer into my run, an idea comes rushing at me from the opposite direction. I don't resist. I welcome it, and for the next four kilometers, it keeps me nice company.

Every so often, you do have to get rid of some socks in order to make space for new arrivals. There's no way around it. Unless you're planning never to buy new socks – for the rest of your life. It's the same with memories. The memory drawer – at least my memory drawer – is not infinite in its capacity. Yes, it's spacious enough to contain tens of thousands of memories. But it is still finite in its capacity.

The socks drawer. I have some thirty pairs. Some are way too old, with holes at the big toe, the fabric thinner at the heel. But I don't get rid of them. It's not beauty or perfection that count when I decide which socks to keep and which to discard. It's the feeling, the comfort and familiarity when I wear them. Not perfection. Some socks were bought years ago but are still brand new – worn maybe once or twice. No sentiments here – get rid of them, although they look quite perfect. I love socks. In different colors and different shapes. That's why my sock drawer should always be just about almost full. Full enough to give me enough choices on any given morning, but also have some spare space for new arrivals.

Same thing with memories. Some are imperfect, but I keep them because of their feeling, the comfortable way they fit into and under my skin, and their smooth flow in my blood, and the smile they draw onto my soul. But tonight I realized that I've been hanging on to some memories for no reason. Memories that are only taking up space like the perfectly-new-yet-never-worn socks. Not only they are useless, but they take up precious space, not making room for new memories to arrive and settle down comfortably. So tonight I am revisiting not the drawer of the socks, but a much more important drawer. That of memories. Sifting through, leaving most, but also not being afraid of discarding those that are unwanted. Taking them out with the trash, returning home, and closing the door behind them. This time, for good. Tomorrow morning I will wake up with a roomier drawer, ready to collect new memories.

novel progress update

I've been getting many inquiries from friends regarding the publication of my novel. The key word here is patience. The standard time it takes from a book to be published from the moment a publisher takes on the work is 12 months. At the moment, the manuscript is being edited by the dedicated people at Spinifex. The whole process takes time, as after they send me suggestions I need to go back to the manuscript and work on it some more. The book is scheduled to come out sometimes in early 2014. I will keep you posted on the progress.

But the exciting news is that I get to keep all copyrights to my work.

As some of you know, I have posted some short segments of "Fragments" here on my blog in the past. However, as soon as I learned that Spinifex would be publishing the novel, I thought I had to forfeit those rights, and I went ahead and deleted all "Fragments" published so far. Now I was informed that all copyrights are mine, and specifically told that I am free to publish segments, I will be publishing short sections in the coming months for you to read.

I also invite you to help me think of a new title for the novel. Currently, the novel's name is "Life in Fragments." However, I would like to incorporate the word Haifa into the title. So any brainstorming is welcome. So far, I've received the following suggestions from friends:

* Haifa Fragments * Haifa in Fragments * Haifa Life in Fragments * Fragmented Haifa * Fragmented Haifa Living * Living Fragments of Haifa * My Haifa in Fragments.
One friend suggested I make Fragments into a verb.

Any suggestions are welcome.

khulud

Dreams do come true

I have completed my first novel, "Life in Fragments" [tentative name], on 30 June, 2012. In its present form, it took me two and a half years to complete the novel. Throughout the whole period, I had my ups and downs. Ecstatic moments when I was able to complete a "perfect" sentence or paragraph, but more often, long bouts of depression when nothing seemed to work - no words were adequate to express what I thought needed to be written down. Words refusing to be formed. Jarred sentences. Annoying, uncooperative characters who just bounced off the paper and rebelled against any structure.

Struggle. sweat. blood. insomnia.

But finally, I pulled through the dark, and a novel was born. I felt my body emptying. A part of me was gone, just like after giving birth. I even experienced post-birth depression.

I let it all sink in.

After a while, I began searching for a home for the manuscript. Friends said: "it takes a while, sometimes even years." I had faith. Sent the synopsis and first two chapters for review by several publishers and agents. Negative responses in the best case, no response in the worse case.

An opening: an agent in New York agreed to read the whole manuscript.
The Director of the radical feminist Spinifex publishing house, Susan Hawthorne, asked for the first 50 pages, and then for the whole manuscript.

No response from the agent in New York.

I began to doubt my writing and my dream. I was seriously considering of giving it up, of throwing in the towel. Of searching for a new dream to chase.

I reached rock bottom. Complete darkness.

And then the email came. A contract is on the way with Spinifex. A small publisher, yet I am excited, as I feel that it is the right one to publish my book. They are a radical feminist publisher, very political. The perfect home for my first novel.

I haven't written anything in a while. Was on the verge of quitting. Now, with this news, I am again full of energies and belief in my abilities. My mind is brewing with the new characters of my second novel, "Tea at the Checkpoint."

At the same time, I am excited to be revisiting again the character of "Life in Fragments" for the purposes of editing the manuscript. To be honest, I do miss them often.

So, it is back to full-fledged writing for me again: editing "Life in Fragments" and working on "Tea at the Checkpoint." I'm not sure if I will have any spare time in the next few months to post articles here, but will try.

Until next time, dear readers and friends :)

welcoming back - from the back door only

Some exquisite parts of a mythical past always find their way into the present. The way to deal with these parts is to embrace them with a smile, knowing they are what have shaped you, molded you, and made you who you are. So, my dear mythological friend from the past, I open the door for you for one evening, with a forgiving smile. Welcome to my sacred space.

meanings of home

(c) photos by khulud kh, 2012

Home. What is the meaning of home? How can we define it? Or, rather, can we collapse the meaning of home into one coherent concept? But why should we? It is much more captivating to de-construct its meaning and to discover a plethora of layers, dimensions and meanings to this one seemingly simple concept. 

During the past year, I’ve been engaged in thinking and re-thinking the meaning of home in different settings. These have been separate processes that are tied together in unexpected modes. And, as befitting, they all finally collapse into words on paper, ink by word, for this is the one medium in which – intriguingly enough – I feel most at HOME.

more to come soon... follow up

Identity in Crisis

“Crisis of Identity” – we Palestinian citizens of Israel supposedly suffer from this disease. I’ve heard this term hurled at me in accusing anger, in psychological diagnosis, in pity, in sarcasm. It’s always been a statement – nobody ever bothered even to ask my opinion or if I feel I suffer from this disease. We Palestinian citizens of Israel suffer from an extremely severe and incurable “Crisis of Identity.” We are split between “loyalty” to the state of Israel and belonging to our people.

Well, dear accusers:

I’ve got some news for you. I DO NOT – repeat: I DO NOT – suffer from any crisis of identity. I know who I am, and I surely know where my loyalties are. My loyalties are first and foremost to my values and to justice.

And if you think you will read here any “justifications” – you can stop reading right now. I don’t need to justify myself or my values to anybody.

Some facts:

I am a Palestinian. I live in my own homeland, which happens to be under the official name of Israel in the present. I carry an Israeli citizenship and an Israeli passport. I am institutionally discriminated against as part of a national minority. I stand up for my rights. I fight for my rights. I have no inferiority complex. I have no identity crisis.

Some thoughts on identity:

My own identity is made up of a plethora of aspects. To constrict me to my national identity is not only not right, but it is untrue. I am made of a multitude of identities, which are liquid, flowing and flexible. And never fixed. They are all temporary. How boring it must be to get stuck in one identity your whole life!

(c) khulud kh, June 2012

Women with disabilities – thoughts

Emilia, my mother in an improvisation workshop. May 2012. photo by khulud kh (c)

I recently participated in a group of women with and without disabilities. It’s funny that I have a disabled mother – three and a half years passed since her CVA, yet until I participated in this group, I never made any connections.

The feminist movement I am familiar with has not made any major steps to include women with disabilities in its activities or even in its discourse. Only recently we initiated some discourse in Isha L’Isha about it, and held the first group of women with and without disabilities.

It’s strange, since in feminism, we advocate for the full and equal rights of marginalized and invisible groups. Women with disabilities have never taken any space in my life. Not until my mother suffered her CVA. But even then, it was something very personal. I had to deal with a completely new reality all of a sudden, in addition to reversal of roles in the family. I guess I was so busy in daily coping with this that I didn’t have time to connect it to something broader.

But now I’m glad I’m beginning to make the connections. The group process is now over, but the themes brought up, and the women who until then were invisible even to me – are taking up space in my thinking process.

It’s clear to me that this is only the beginning. Recently I’ve taken interest in photography, and since it coincided with the disabilities issue, it’s naturally pulling me in that direction. I volunteered to help in the PhotoVoice part of the research that Isha L’Isha is planning with group participants, and I’m looking forward to it. I’m also thinking of doing some small project with my mom with PhotoVoice. So far, disabilities have not appeared in my writing, but I know they will. It’s a process – I can’t rush it and can’t force myself to it. There’s no need. There is a time for it to happen naturally. And I know it will. In what form – fiction, poetry, or non-fiction, it doesn’t matter. It will come out in its own form.

And finally, I hope that the action initiated by Isha L’Isha will bear fruit and that through our awareness-raising activities, more feminist and other social change organizations will start working on issues of women with disabilities.

(c) khulud kh, June 2012

reason, will and desire

This is not a "serious" blog-post. Just playing around tonight.

Can't really do any "serious" writing with all the noise outside. Anyway...

According to Plato, the human mind is composed of REASON, WILL, and DESIRE.

This sentence caught me by surprise. Surprise about how simple and logical this is.

Although I do think there are other components to the human mind, like memories and madness, but that's another point.

Anyhow. Since I decided to study jewelry designing, I really can't wait to start, so I've been playing around with the primitive materials we have at home, and this ring is what I came up with. I think I like it - it's quite rough, asymmetrical, but still. I made it, using those parts of the mind labelled by Plato as "will" and "desire."

Yes, I believe that if you have the WILL and the DESIRE to achieve something, I mean if you TRULY desire it, there's nothing that can stop you from achieving it.

Give a Stranger a Smile – Small Acts of Kindness (or: on becoming a runner)

She didn’t really mean to do it. All she was after was some paper for the printer. She had to buy some today because she needed to print the manuscript and otherwise she’d be stuck without paper for the whole weekend. So after she got her paper (just the regular kind, as the small store didn’t have any recycled paper), she wandered to the newly opened bookstore nearby. Instinctively she walked over to the English fiction section, her eyes swiftly sweeping the titles, all the way to the letter M. She didn’t anticipate it. She’s been waiting for this book for over a year, searching for it on every occasion. But some books just don’t make it here that fast. She’d all but forgotten about it. And now, on this day, there it was. And in hardcover! Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84. All three books. Almost a thousand pages of magic realism. Her favorite author and her favorite genre. Ecstatic, elated, she immediately picked it up, and as an afterthought grabbed also the very thin paperback What I Talk about when I Talk about Running, a Memoir, also by Murakami.

At the counter, one of the young saleswomen exclaimed: “What beautiful earring you have!” Without thinking, her left hand went up to her left ear to feel the earring. She remembered vaguely slipping it on in the morning. Her very first wire-wrapped earring she made, just two days before. Right after arranging a little mini-studio for jewelry designing in one corner of her apartment. After she decided to study jewelry designing. It was a primitively made earring, with no skill whatsoever. She just wanted to see if she has any potential. If she had any creativity potential, that is. And also to explore if the process of working with her hands gave her any delight. It did. The feeling after completing that one, single earring was similar to the feeling she got after completing a good session of writing. In a much smaller intensity, but it was there. She could sense its essence.

As she felt the earring at the bookstore, her fingers – on their own – took the earring off her ear, a shy smile slipped on and, handing the earring to the young woman, she said: “Do you like it? Here, it’s yours. Sorry I only have one.”

The Young woman was speechless. She held the earring in her open palm, looked at her disbelievingly, then at the saleswoman standing next to her, and said: “She gave me an earring!” There was great happiness in that small sentence. A gratitude.

She said, “Enjoy the earring,” smiled, and walked out of the bookstore with her 1Q84 and What I Talk about when I Talk about Running. Yes, got potential there. Very first earring and already given away, a small act of kindness.

That evening, after reading the first two chapters of What I Talk about When I Talk about Running, she decided to become a runner too. An extremely good day it was. The small act of kindness did her good. She made a stranger smile. For free. She got stronger motivation about her choice to study jewelry design, and decided to become a runner. All in one day. A good day, indeed.

Decluttering (reclaiming 730 hours a year)

Wake up in the morning, put water to boil. Meanwhile, turn on the computer. Pour a cup of coffee. Take it to the computer. Open the inbox. You do vaguely remember cleaning out your inbox before going to bed last night, but while you slept, it filled up again. Best case, twenty emails. On an average morning, thirty emails. Your brain still clogged up, you begin browsing through them – first, deleting all the newsletters you didn’t even know you subscribed to. Then, you skim to see if there’s any urgent matters that need to be taken care of. After that, you start going through emails from friends – photos, funny videos, links to important news. Demands for help. Calls for demonstrations. Important petitions to sign. Another cup of coffee. Waiting for the water heater can take an hour on a winter’s morning. And thus, you begin the day with one hour less.

An hour spent passively responding, reacting.

While showering, you try to remember what in the world you did during this one hour only five, six years ago. When you were lucky to get one email a week. On a good week, maybe two. Aaah, yes, you would wake up, make a cup of coffee, and grab the novel from your bedside table and read another chapter. Or a book of poetry. Or, take your notebook and write.

An hour spent actively feeding your mind. An hour spent creating. You begin your day with one hour gained.

Nostalgia? No, it doesn’t have to be. You decide you want to reclaim that one hour in the morning, and another one in the evening. So much can be achieved in 730 hours a year, which amount to one whole month of reclaimed time!

(c) khulud kh, 2012

new initiatives

I don't know why, but I feel like there's a whole bunch of ants swarming inside my brain. I feel I want to start something new and fresh. Of course something to do with writing - how can it be otherwise? Playing around with ideas in my head at the moment. I don't mean starting a new novel, no. I mean something in a more creative way. Something collage-like, that I can play with and mold it in different ways. Well, what I actually need is a subject matter, or an issue. Maybe if I have the issue then I can think of the form that suits it best. Maybe some kind of a "need" out there - naturally, I'd like it to be an issue related to women. If anyone out there has any ideas for me, please send them my way through comments below this post.

thanks!

khulud

Friday night home alone

So I worked a full day yesterday – half a working day at one job, the other half working day at my other job. In between – take the dogs out go swimming help my daughter prepare for her two day workshop in Jerusalem answer emails in three different email accounts go out and buy milk read Rela’s book don’t forget to eat don’t forget to eat at ten at night start cleaning house am I crazy yes do the dishes fold the laundry sweep the floors take dogs out again before they scratch part of the door off! Take a shower continue to sweep the floors organize desktop answer more emails work on report call mother get the sock from the dog before he tears it wash the floors make sure dogs are out of the way don’t want paw-prints on the floor. Talk to daughter kiss her goodnight. Take a shower and go to sleep.

This morning – wake up at six in the morning make coffee for my father take him home take his car come back and take my daughter to the meeting point to Jerusalem go back home take dogs out go to my parents’ house for the whole day. Don’t forget to eat don’t forget to eat. At six in the evening come back home, turn on water heater take dogs out smoke a cigarette drink a cup of coffee change the sheets sweep the bedroom floor. Take a shower. Wait. Eight o’clock. No phone call no message nothing. Eight fifteen. My phone vibrates and I read the message: “I fell asleep I’m sorry I didn’t mean this to happen.”

Take the bottle of wine off the shelf and start drinking. Work on my novel.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2012)

body image (or: my magic training pants)

So I was again in this same group which made me want to scream last time. But this time we had a really good session. We discussed body image – what we like about our appearance, how important is it to us, the stereotype that all feminist women neglect their appearance, what is beauty and by whom is it defined, the perfect body and by whom is it defined, culture and society in relation to body image, and what not.
Anyway, as we were concluding the session, moving from our own private bodies to the public sphere of society and how it perceives beauty, I thought of one microcosmic example for how much society puts emphasis on external appearances.

They’re doing some construction work in my neighborhood, so it is literally teeming with young men bursting with hormones. I take the dogs out in the morning in my training suit and in my black jacket. I walk past the working men. I am air. Invisible.

Later on, I leave the house for the office – dressed in skinny jeans and boots. The same black jacket. My face and hair are exactly the same as in the morning, as I don’t use any makeup. So – practically the only difference is the clothes on the lower part of my body: skinny jeans and boots instead of baggy training pants and crocs. All men stop working. All heads turned in my direction, their eyes following me down the street. I am amazed how a pair of skinny jeans and boots can turn me from completely invisible to the center of their attention – for a few moments, at least.

The next morning, I put on my training suit, black jacket and crocs – and head out with the dogs again. I walk past the working men. And I am invisible again. I smile to myself. My baggy training pants are magical, having the superpower of making me invisible – well, in certain situations at least and for certain individuals. But. Nevertheless.

(c) by khulud kh. all rights reserved (2012)

Madness - the Divinest Sense

(c) photo by khulud kh, all rights reserved


So there’s this writer, her name is Asmahan. She has these characters, who have taken off the page and become real. They go to the café with her and sit right next to her – too close at times, enveloping the space around her. They invade her private moments, even in her most sacred moments of solitude. Most often they don’t listen to her. They even have the audacity to argue with her. But what’s most outrageous is that they tempt her – until she can no longer resist and lets them occupy spaces of her brain – and of her reality. They gradually take over more and more, until she sees Shahd downstairs in the library, sitting there among a group of real-life women. The horror on Asmahan’s face! She looks exactly like Shahd – the hair, the eyes, the color of her skin. Even that mesmerizing movement of her eyelashes – like the flutter of a butterfly! Asmahan blinks once, twice. Moves her head to the left and then to the right to make sure she’s not imagining all of this. But it is her – Shahd from “life in fragments.” It can’t be any other woman. Not here, not like this. Fascinated, she listens to Shahd’s voice, and her words are the script she had written down for her the night before.

That same night, Asmahan steps into her own manuscript, and reality merges with imagination. They become inseparable even in her own mind.

Just the rumblings of a mind on the verge of madness… but then what is madness? Aren’t we all mad in our own ways? And isn’t madness a natural part of our lives? And who defines madness? The meaning is so slippery and elusive, that whenever I think of it, I always come up with Emily Dickinson’s poem “Much Madness is divinest Sense.” I find her words comforting at my most despairing moments, just when I am positive that I will soon cross that thin line separating rational thought from complete madness.

“Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense – the starkest Madness –
‘Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail –
Assent – and you are sane –
Demur – you’re straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain –“

Poem by Emily Dickinson.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2011)

"What is feminism?" (or - I just want to scream)

(c) photo by khulud kh - all rights reserved

Just wanted to scream.
Ok so I’m sitting in this group. We’re all sitting in a circle. We start like in a feminist Collective with a round of names. Then there’s time and space for thoughts we had since our last meeting. The group is containing. Pleasant atmosphere. Some of the women are my friends. Others are new to me. Then we work in small groups, answering the following questions: “When did I discover I was a feminist? What was my first feminist act?” So I share my thoughts. My first feminist act – I don’t remember. But I do remember my most significant feminist act, which continues to accompany me. That of bringing my voice into the open. The transition from the private to the public sphere in my writing. And with this transition, the contents of my writing also changed from the personal to the political. And this is feminism all about – at least to me.

Then we went back to the group, and we were asked to share personal stories. I shared mine. Another woman shared hers. Her first feminist act was as a young teenager, when she took part in organizing and holding a demonstration. She stressed the collective power, the power to change, and the action in the public sphere. We were both talking about the same thing. From the private to the public – these are our first and most significant feminist actions.

Then, several other women talked, and as I was listening, trying to understand them and contain their different views of feminism, a silent scream began to form inside of me. While thinking of my feminist act, my independence or the fact that I am a single provider for my household, or the fact that I don’t cook – all these didn’t even cross my mind. But this was the main thing these women talked about. They talked about the importance of being an economically independent woman, but at the same time expressed clear antagonism towards feminism. One of them said that she took care of an old lady who never married and never had children, and that this old lady was very sad because she felt she had missed on life. What does this have to do with feminism? The focus of their talk was relationships, with cooking sneaking in every now and then. Oh, and burning bras.

So this is what feminism means to them? I thought and wanted to let that scream loose. None of them talked about social struggles, structural oppression, the rule of hegemony, acting in the public sphere.

This was yesterday. 24 hours have passed, and I am left with some thoughts. Yes, I am an economically independent woman. Yes, I am the single provider for my household. No, I don’t have a husband or a partner who lives with me. No, I don’t know how to cook. Now the question is – is this because I’m a feminist? I want to say no! These choices have nothing to do with feminism. But that would be not looking the truth in the eye. Feminism for me is a wide worldview and a way of life. So I guess the choices – personal or not – I make in my life are always connected this way or that – to the fact that I am a feminist.

But what I want to say is that this is not the essence of feminism, and never has been. Many feminists love to cook, many feminists are married and have children, and many feminists wear bras (YES).

So, what did I want to say? Oh yes, I just wanted to let that scream out and make clear the fact that my feminism is about the political. It’s not about cooking, not about bras, not about living (or not) with a partner. It’s about my right to be present and act in the public sphere. Mainly, for me, at this stage – it’s about my voice! About my voice having the legitimacy to be heard in the public sphere. There you go – I let my silent scream out.

(c) all rights reserved to khulud kh (2011)

Yes, even Capital Letters can be Political

ok don't take this post too seriously. It's something I've been playing around in my mind with.

So I've dropped the caps from my name. This was after I've dropped all but the first letter of my family name [but that's in another post] I'm no longer Khulud Kh. I am khulud kh.

Why? No, not for the same reason that bell hooks dropped her caps.

It's for a much simpler reason - my name in its original language - Arabic - is خلود.
No caps. And since it's an Arabic name, why should it be Englishized or Anglicanized (yes, I'm making up words along the way) or Westernized?
I realize that many languages in the world use caps - and for good reasons. But there are many other languages - Arabic and Hebrew just two examples - that don't have caps, and don't see any reason for using caps.

My Arabic name doesn't have caps, and therefore, it will not have caps in English either.

I've been interviewed by a German friend for a German newspaper for a theater-festival. I've explicitly asked her to make sure that my name appears without the caps. The editors refused to drop them, claiming that "nobody would understand that this is an artist name." So I was once again Khulud Kh. But this is not my "artist name." It's MY name. And I think that one of my very basic rights is to decide how I spell my name.

No - I'm not making an issue of it - as I wrote in the beginning, no need to take it seriously. These are just my ramblings at a late hour of the night. Sometimes I laugh at this, but sometimes it does annoy me. This invasion even of my very name and my ownership of it [not to mention ways of spelling and why I spell it with a "kh" and why there are no "o"s in it].

Is there still Hope? - The Hebrew Version

Photograph by Sam Contis who also owns the cactus, which is a piece of art by Naomi Safran-Hon. The text in the image is by Hannah Safran. All rights reserved.

And so tonight I received a follow-up email from my friend Hannah Safran, with the Hebrew version of the cactus this time. In Hebrew, the words are different. It says: "and when they torture him, he will multiply and he will erupt." There is use of the affirmative in the sentence, stressing the act of multiplying and erupting. Thinking about it, the language is archaic and it may be something from the Torah.

Anyway - the Hebrew text only reinforces my second interpretation about the hope. That the desire of this cactus to live is so strong that it will even break through cement.

Is there still Hope?

Photograph by Sam Contis who also owns the cactus, which is a piece of art by Naomi Safran-Hon. The text in the image is by Hannah Safran. All rights reserved.

I received this photo today by email from a good friend of mine, Hannah Safran.
In the subject line, she wrote: "44 years against the occupation."
In the body of the email, she wrote: "the cactus grows inside the cement. is there still hope?"

The picture and the words can be interpreted in two contradicting ways.
When I first saw the picture and read the words, I felt sad. Something heavy settled in my stomach. Why? Because cement in this context connotes death for me - the solid end. And for a cactus to grow inside the cement - well, I thought to myself, it must have been out of desperation.

Then I closed the computer, went to bed, couldn't sleep, came back here, opened the email again, and read the words once again:
"the cactus grows inside the cement. is there still hope?"
I lingered on every word. The cactus is growing. It's growing. Yes, it's growing in the cement, but growing. Meaning that the cactus has not lost hope. On the contrary, this is one hell of a cactus! Won't give up! Life is so precious to it that it makes roots even in cement! It's rootedness - what we call SUMUD.

Then the other part of the sentence, "is there still hope?"
Well, let me tell you something! I have plans for a better tomorrow. If I didn't have dreams of a better tomorrow, then there would be no reason for me to be here.
And what is the alternative, anyway? To lose hope? Now that's the scary part. I don't even want to imagine what would happen if we do lose hope...

my private revolution

sunrise in Uganda. photo by khulud kh. All rights reserved.

There are grand revolutions that affect the future of whole nations, such as the one we recently witnessed in Egypt. And then there are calm revolutions that sometimes happen without us even noticing. Mine is one such calm revolution but which affected my life tremendously. Becoming part of Isha L’Isha’s supportive feminist community has changed me immensely on many levels. One major impact directly related to Isha L’Isha is the development and rise of my political voice. I live my life through words, but for the most part they have been hidden in the folds of my private life. With the support of my feminist friends, and the feminist outlook that the personal is political, my small revolution began taking root. Today I feel that my own personal experiences have the legitimacy and the right to take up space in the public sphere. Today, I am no longer intimidated to make my voice heard loud and clear. Today, I no longer have doubts about sharing my personal experiences and connecting them to the larger socio-political reality. For me, this is a tiny revolution on a major scale, and it has affected my development as a writer. For this, I will always be grateful to the supportive and empowering feminist women of Isha L’Isha.