fragments cut from manuscript

(c) photo by khulud khamis. Manuscripting.

Editing my Haifa Fragments manuscript, I have to mercilessly delete some scenes. Here's one of them:

Half way up, Maisoon stopped. Turned around and started walking back down Share’a El-Jabal.Now what? Ziyad followed in silence. “Take me to that nargila place you go to sometimes.” She wasn’t asking him. She was making a statement. “Bas Maisoon! It’s just a small place full of white smoke and sweaty men. No women.” Great! Just mumtaz. “It’s… it’ssort of a closed club… and all they do is smoke, play Shesh Besh, talk politics and make up nonsense conspiracies.” His words were carried backward up the mountain. I want to feel it. I want to sit and smoke a nargila like Majid did. “And the chairs are really really uncomfortable!”

No response other than Maisoon’s scarf swooshing behind her.

It was nothing like what she thought it might be. It wasn’t even a nargila place. Jihad lived in a dilapidated stone house, with the original dark green wooden shutters, coming off their hinges. Ziyad opened the narrow heavy door and walked in without knocking. Maisoon had to will movement into her body to follow his shadow; even in the almost-darkness, her eyes were naturally drawn upwards to the high ceiling, lending the long, narrow entrance an illusory sense of spaciousness.“Yalla, ta’ali! What are you waiting for? A special uzumi?” Ziyad was already opening a door at the other end of this outer room; yellow-grey light escaping from beyond and landing on the cream tiles. Dense smoke swirling around in the light.She followed slowly, her courage discarded at the front door like shoes left at the entrance to a mosque. A cough, shaddi being thrown, shesh besh tiles moving around hectically, slapping down on the board. A sudden scratching of a chair and the movement of bodies as Ziyad walks in. “Ahlaaaaaan ya Abu El-Hasan! Shu hal honour! We thought…” Maisoon’s entrance caught the rest of the words in the man’s throat. The body turned into stone, the mouth remainedhalf-way open. Four heads raised, scanning the space between Ziyad and Maisoon. Drawing a line with their eyes. “Assalamu Alaikum, shabab,” Ziyad didn’t lose his balance and laughed. “Ya salam, one sabiyya and you’re off your tiles? And you call yourselves zlam!”

“You know this is no place for any sabaya, Abu El-Hasan,” Jihad threw his shaddi and played his black tiles, closing off Mu’atasem’s white. He looked at Maisoon sideways, his nod half an apology, half an acknowledgement of her boldness to enter this space reserved for men only. Maisoon accepted his apology with half of a crooked smile of her own.

When the men realised the invader was here to stay, they settled back into their shesh besh game, not without grumbling under their breath as a sign of protest. Maisoon found a frayed old smelly kanabai in one corner and settled down. Ziyad sat down in a wooden chair and watched the game of shesh besh, waiting for his turn to play. Soon Maisoon was forgotten in the corner, and Mu’atasem continued with his interrupted stories of his prison days. In the darkness, he looked almost as old as Majid, and for several minutes Maisoon thought that she would get something, a thread. But when he mentioned some dates, she realised he couldn’t be talking about the same period. She closed her eyes, absorbing the story which, all of a sudden – or so it seemed to her – turned into a tale of women and sexual journeys. She opened her eyes and looked at Ziyad – he was immersed in the game. She closed her eyes again, lowered her back on the kanabai, and dozed off. Dreamed of prisons and nymphs and desert. The persistent ringing of her phone jerked her back into the room.

From the corner of his eye, Ziyad saw Maisoon stepping outside to the back garden, the phone to her ear, an unsettled look on her face.He watched her intently from the window, but the darkness obscured the contents of her face. All he could see was her skirt pacing up and down, followed by the bluish smoke of a cigarette. And then another. Fifteen minutes and three cigarettes later, she walked back in. Sat on Ziyad’s knees. Drank from his beer. “Oh, I hate beer,” she said, making a sour face.

“What was that all about?” He drew back as much as he could from her warm body.

“Shu? El telefon?” she now moved to a free chair next to him, seeing how awkward he felt with her sitting on his knees. In front of other men. “Oh, hayati, it was Shahd. She was telling me about this cousin of hers from Khirbit Jbara. Some soldiers broke into his house last night.” Her voice was brimming with anger.“Just like that, for no reason. They broke some furniture. Searched the house. Didn’t give a reason. And they took all his research. He’s been working on it for months. His pregnant wife was terrified… she’s bleeding and he doesn’t know what to do.” Her face became clouded, weighed down with this new story. Too many stories.Too little space in the brain. “Let’s just go home, Ziyad. Min fadlak. I’mexhausted.”

                     

Silently, he followed her in the dark.

Can’t have even one single night with you.

You alone.

Just give me one night, evening, I’ll even settle for a morning kahwa and cigarette on that crammed balkon of yours.

But without checkpoints, soldiers, ta’ashirat, crossing borders, the chasm between this world and theirs.

Is that too much to ask of you, Mais?

Will we never be alone – just the two of us?

“I’ll walk you home, but I’m not coming up.” She turned around, noticing only now that he was walking a few steps behind her. Looked away – knew a lie was forming on his lips.

“I promised Basel to help him with this project he needs to submit at the end of the month. Have to be at his place early in the morning.” Maisoon kept walking, increasing the distance between them. “But I can be at your place for lunch tomorrow… I’ll make you a nice shakshooka.” He caught up with her, touched the small of her back, but her body evaded him. The rest of the way to the souk passed in silence.

They parted in such incongruence with the building tension between them – could very possibly be physically touched. He kissed her lightly. Turned around, without salamat. She grabbed him by his shirt and pulled forcefully towards her. Collision of bodies.Cold stone against her back. Warmth spreading down her legs. His tongue on her neck.Fingers invading her belly. Feeling the muscles of his back tense at the touch of her palms. The very subtle groan – almost a whisper – released involuntarily with his outbreath.

Two teenage boys approaching, their laughter pushing the wind ahead of them. She cups his face in her palms, kisses him violently, pushes his body away, and disappears into the dark stairway. “No shakshooka tomorrow. I want a restaurant. Tisbah ‘ala alf kheir albi.” Her voice tumbled down from the top of the stairs with the same violence of her kiss.

(c) khulud khamis, deleted from Haifa Fragments, forthcoming by Spinifex Press in 2014.

(c) photo by khulud khamis

She lay in bed, unable to sleep because of the air heavy with humidity. It seemed to her she could actually see it dripping from the air. Her body was melting – she traced the wetness between her breasts, slowly moving down – circling her belly. The softness of it felt nice now. But it wasn’t always like this. Her body used to be an unrelenting enemy. Until Shahd came and helped her become friends with her own body. It was a long process of getting to know different parts of her body, accepting each part as a friend.

Growing up, her aunt had drilled into her brain that a woman cannot – under any condition – have a belly. When she was 17, that same aunt had told her she had crooked legs and thus mustn’t wear skirts unless “they reach way below your knees.” So she gave up on skirts. She hadn’t realised how much these seemingly careless remarks shaped her relationship with her body until she met Shahd. Until then, she didn’t even give it a second thought.

A fleeting image disturbed her line of thoughts: she remembered a day, back when she was still living at her parents’ home. They were doing some construction work in the house right across from theirs. It was early in the morning, and she went out to buy some fresh bread. Dressed in loose sweat pants and her father’s warm coat. Five men were getting out of a jeep, taking their work tools with them. She was invisible, passing them by. Air. Glad to pass by unnoticed. Got the bread, went back – again invisible. A few hours later, dressed in tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a tweed jacket, she went out again. Getting closer. The five men were sitting down to have a coffee break and a cigarette. As she was passing them, from the corner of her eye, she noticed the abrupt halting of all activity. Bodies that were swinging in conversation became rigid. Five heads turning all in the same direction – at the same time.She was visible all of a sudden when before invisible. Five pairs of eyes following her all the way down the narrow alley, until she turned the corner. The following morning, with the same loose sweat pants, the same oversized coat, she walked out of the house to buy fresh bread. Smiling to herself at her protection from invaders.

The obsession with the body what to wear how long it should be what it should cover why and for whom. Always self-conscious. Sometimes invisible sometimes air sometimes – the object of their masturbation she would feel how they were taking away – stealing from her – parts of her body to take home with them so that late at night, in their bed, alone or with another woman what did it matter – they could release that image of her and masturbate or imagine her while they entered another body. The obsession with the body – what to wear how long it should be what it should cover why and for whom.

Shahd. Asal. Honey. Three short letters. She carried her beauty carelessly – like it didn’t even belong to her. Her hair was either loosely tied with a long colourful scarf – about the only colourful item she would allow herself to be caught in – at the nape of her neck, or else it was set loose to the capriciousness of the wind. Her only makeup was black kohl that made the violet dots in her eyes even more pronounced and mysterious-looking. Still, with all that beauty, there was something boyish about the way she carried herself. Maisoon couldn’t make up her mind if she was doing it unawares or if she was purposefully teasing those around her. 

(c) khulud khamis, cut from Haifa Fragments - forthcoming by Spinifex Press in 2014.

We demand life

My stomach is turning. A father murdered his 17 year old daughter by burning her alive. The reason: she "sullied her family's honor" by being in touch with men on Facebook. After reading the article, my whole body trembled. When will our society realize that a family's honor has nothing to do with this?! My honor isn't between my legs. My honor lies in leading an honest life and in being true to my own values. Enough killing girls and women. Our gender is not an approval for murdering us. Nothing constitutes a reason to murder us! We demand life!

Links to the article: 
Ynet: "Indictment: Man set fire to daughter for meeting men online."
Haaretz: "East Jerusalem father charged with killing his daughter over 'family honor'."

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.

Institutionalized human trafficking

Ok, I usually don't post links to articles, but rather write my own thoughts about what goes on here and how it affects me personally. But this time, I am just so outraged that I'm left utterly speechless. All I can think of is - this is pure human trafficking.

You can read about it in the article published today (09 July, 2013) in YNet, "Israel to Trade Arms for Migrants with African Countries" by Itamar Eichner:
http://www.ynetnews.com/articles/0,7340,L-4402834,00.html

And for my Hebrew language readers, here's a photo of the article in the printed press

experimenting with Poetry in Arabic

until now, this blog was primarily in English. Recently, I have begun experimenting with words in Arabic, writing some poetry.

التقط الضباب 

والندى يتألق 

بين اصابع الحشيش

***

وهذه اللغة
جديدة علي

***

عﻻقتي فيها
مثل عﻻقتي مع حيفا

*** 

عﻻقة مهاجرة غير-مهاجرة
بل ليست عفوية

***

أتعلم رسمك
ونغمتك
حرفاً
بعد
حرف

(c) khulud khamis, June 2013 Haifa حيفا

Haifa Fragments

the time has come for cruel editing. The following piece is to be taken apart and integrated in parts somewhere in the manuscript. Still, it remains on of my favorite pieces of the original work:

And she danced ورقصت
Maisoon’s memory of their first meeting was in complete incongruence with Ziyad’s, but she let him hang on to his narrative nevertheless, keeping hers undisclosed. Maybe one day she will be able to share it with him, but not now – not yet. There were parts of her she wasn’t ready to expose, for fear of –. So when he would whisper in her ear after painful love-making about his toes feeling the rough grains of sand while he watched her dancing that night, she would just smile in the dark, whispering “ehkeeli kaman” –tell me more. But for her, it was a night of giving in.

Her body desperately converging with the sounds – becoming one with water. Yearning to find the slippery roots in the liquid. Land-less. Language-less. Only wet sand beneath her feet – unstable. Reaching out for something to hold on to – anything to keep her from shrinking into a crumpled piece of a discarded history book. Her image of herself fit perfectly with what was happening; the Ministry of Education pulling out the high school history books after the beginning of the school year only to erase her history, replacing it with one that fit the character of the state better; the Nakba bill, criminalizing anybody commemorating the Nakba day; deleting the Arabic names of cities.

That evening, she had connected the dots between all these events. Though she knew these things were not new – they have been going on for years. She didn’t know why these specific ones had such forceful effect on her. Maybe it was the act of permanent deletion that terrified her so. She was struck with a desolate feeling that they want to delete her personally – delete all signs of her memory. Of her ever being here. I am not wanted here – the place I call home. I am set to be deleted, just like that: by pressing “ctrl-alt-delete.” Do they want to erase the history of a whole people? My language? The memory of my footprints? Even that.

As Tayseer began to play the durbakki, she pushed these thoughts onto the edge of the water, demanding their drowning in the foaming waves. Then she renounced herself completely to the music. She hadn’t noticed Ziyad as he watched her mesmerized.

Abandoned to the music, her mind was becoming a tangle of thoughts. Suddenly, she was thinking of winter, that season she loved most. But it was a season of sadness for her also. She thought of all the colourful scarves she loved to wear in the winter. Her favourite ones were of course forbidden to her: the red-and-white and the black-and-white kafiyyas her father had given her.

The black-and-white kafiyyah wrapped around her shoulders, she feels like a strange kind of cheese people are trying to figure out. Long ago it had lost its meaning; politicized when the west had turned it into a symbol of terrorism, and then again de-politicized when it started being mass-manufactured by brand labels in all colours of the rainbow only to become a mere fashion statement. Before leaving her apartment in the winter, she puts her kafiyyah on, wrapping it around her shoulders, and stands in front of the mirror to contemplate the woman with the olive skin for a few moments. Then, with a thread of sadness unspooling from a corner of the kafiyya, she takes it off and hangs it back, leaving part of her very identity at home.

When Ziyad approached her, only small particles of her were with him – her other parts still immersed in the sizzling sensation she always experienced after dancing like that. Only Tayseer’s durbakki could make her body move like that, detaching itself from her will in the process.

(c) khulud khamis

An Arab an the Pool

I buy a ticket to the pool, just like any other citizen, take a key and head to change into my black, one-piece bathing suit. After swimming ten pools, I decide I like it here and want to make a membership. I tie a towel around the upper part of my body, and walk to the reception desk. The woman at the desk smiles at me, how may I help you, young lady. I tell her I wish to subscribe to the center’s pool, get all the information—three month program, six month program, twelve-month program—and I settle on the twelve month membership. "I need your ID card please." So I hand her my ID card, knowing what to expect. She takes the ID card—at the bottom of which there is one word, the one word which always betrays. Not me, but the person studying it. Her reality slows down as she tries to figure out in her head—without being too conspicuous about it—how to react. Should she just ignore it? Should she comment? Say that some of her best friends are like that? Or that Mustafa is her favorite car mechanic?

Looking up at me in great surprise, and almost in a whisper, confessing, "You know, if it weren’t written down here, I would have never believed you were an Arab." What is there to react to such ignorance? The only thing I manage to do is come up with a faded smile, apologizing for not looking the part.

***

I wrote the piece above several years ago. Rereading it, it tickles me. These surprised looks used to trigger different emotions in me. But not anymore. Sadly, living in a place that is overflowing with racism, one gets immune to the more subtle forms of it. Otherwise, we couldn't function. Because it's everywhere, all the time, non-stop.

اسمهان Asmahan

اسمهان

when I'm with you in the bayader                              parts of me fall off

your body is so tender that I'm afraid                          to touch you – lest

you diminish in                                                           beauty and – Asmahan

when you take the veil off your hair                            for me – I am. I become.

and I lust to cover my                                                 body with

your hair                                                                     – to feel its silky smoothness

I crave to worship –                                                     you.

kneel down and –                                                       pray your love into me.

to lose my self and find my self –                                 inside you.

terrified you will – one day –                                       dissolve between my arms

intoxicated by the letters of –                                       your name in my blood.

and one day I will                                                        turn to the ashes of your name.

(c) khulud khamis, forthcoming in Spinifex press.

her voice

He asked her what is the color of – 
her voice.

and the story of what season does it
tell.

What does it smell like.
What does it taste like.

***

And she replied
It's the color of fire
telling the story of winter
smells like rain
tastes like the brown earth

***

(1)
أسمك إمرأة
صوتك صوت المطر
رائحتك النسيم
مشيتك الزمن
سائلة بدمي
دائماً وأبداً


(2)
طيري قريباً للشمس
فإن ﻻ تحترقي
لم تعيشي!
إحترقي
عيشي

(c) khulud khamis, Haifa 2013

Learning to Fly

Where is this – 
Hatred coming from
Like fire
Unleashed.

Hatred?
Or – 
Envy!

Is it because –
She was made of you.
But dared to reach up
For the branches
And then learned to –
Fly?

While you kept your wings
Tucked underneath
The whole life through.

Only because
You feared
Falling down

Or –
Was your fear greater
That of succeeding to –
fly?

(c) khulud khamis, 2013

CONTEXT

some political thoughts on the context within which we live:

Palestinians constitute a national minority living within the green line, and ever since the Nakba in 1948, they have had ambiguous relations with the state. On the one hand, we are legally full citizens of the state. On the other hand, we are continuously discriminated against through systemic policies and racist legislations. There is clear discrimination in allocations of resources in all fields - education, health, land, infrastructures, public transport, etc. Not only that, but due to this systemic discrimination, our accessibility to resources such as education, housing, employment, social services, health services, economic opportunities and more are very limited.

Alongside these practices, there are dangerous political processes happening which threaten our collective national identity. The state makes great and strategic efforts to deconstruct our identity and sense of belonging through various means, such as restricting our right to commemorate the Nakba, through school curricula, trying to recruit our youth to the National Civic Service, legislation proposals to give those who did National Civic Service extra rights and incentives in different fields, and more. Furthermore, our freedom of expression is restricted, thus reducing our public, political, social and democratic spaces, and many social change leaders and activists are politically persecuted.

The abovementioned factors constitute only a partial background to our complex reality, which affects the abilities of Palestinian social change organizations to act and effect genuine and sustainable social change in our community. More specifically, this reality has unique effects on our youth which, combined with our still traditional and patriarchal society, poses great challenges on their sound development.

The education system, school curricula, and contents taught are controlled by the state, thereby restricting the development of a Palestinian identity among our youth. Furthermore, the education system today does not provide youth with tool for critical thinking. Political, social and economic issues are ignored, and contexts relevant to youth's lives are not dealt with at all. When they finish high school, there is almost no guidance regarding higher education options, how to choose the right profession according to interests, tools on integration into higher education, etc.

Another issue affecting our youth is the geographic fragmentation. The more than 1.5 million Palestinians living within the green line are geographically fragmented, with three major concentrations of communities: in the Galilee (North), Triangle (Center) and the Naqab (South). Many youth, who live in geographic and socio-economic peripheries (e.g. unrecognized Bedouin villages in the South or from remote villages in the Galilee), do not have the opportunity to meet other youth from other parts of the Palestinian community. This reality affects their ability to develop solidarity across all segments of Palestinian society; solidarity that is larger than their own small local circle, which is necessary if we wish to build a strong and resilient society that is united, has a strong sense of belonging and reciprocal social responsibility.

fragmented Haifa poetry no. 4 - June 2013

fragmented - 1 

My Haifa 
* stairs * scorching sun * racism * sound of waves at night * destruction * colors * mountain * languages * immigrants * topography * marginalization * gardens * hatred * rain * co-existence / non-existence * sound of planes * train * LGBTQI * friends * trees * prostitution * fires in the Carmel * discrimination * poetry * religion * my favorite trumpet player at the corner * so many churches * poverty * music * Carmelit * collision * 

***

fragmented - 2
the words are bubbling under my skin.
break through, burst out - 
onto the page.

***

fragmented - 3

just drag me from the outside in.
beyond the -
within.

*** 

fragmented - 4

Copy this – 
Body.
With all its wrinkles and comforts
All imperfections 
But also
The perfections.

(c) khulud khamis, 2013

My Haifa - poem III [American-made toys invading my airspace]

The voice of your –

Masterfully crafted

American made

Toys.

Invading my head

Over the Haifa skies

Invading my very own –

airspace.

Ironic.

My neighbors can –

Only sleep in peace

With these

American-made

Toys – overhead.

Oh – The greatest lie

Of security.

And I just wish –

I could for once

Write to a

Different music.

(c) khulud khamis, 2013

My Haifa - poem no. II

Like a lover,
You betrayed me.
Promising to contain – 
Me.

Like a betrayer,
You turned your mountain
To me.
And hid the sea.

Like a true friend
I remained
Within you.
Refused to leave.

Like the fool
My heart skips a beat
At the prospect
That one day –

You will be mine
And also theirs.

Because your mountain
Your sea
Your stairs
Your humidity and scorching sun

Are enough to contain
The us and the them.

(c) khulud khamis, 2013