hidden garden behind a row of Haifa city blocks

this morning
discovering a garden
no - a haven
after ten years in this block
hidden behind a locked gate.

last week,
I received my own key.
a tree, yellow fruit. Lemons?
need to get closer - feel its yellowness.

behind a row of low Haifa city blocks -
a virgin garden
waiting -
to be meditated in

waiting -
to be written.

(c) khulud khamis, May 2015

Borders of identity and language in Haifa

Borders of identity and language in Haifa are all delineated and defined by the compounded topography of this unique city. So – in theory, one out of every five people walking the streets is Arab (because we do constitute 20% of the population, according to official statistics). The way people perceive you on the street in fact depends on your exact location at that moment. Sometimes all the difference is one street corner. At other times, the transition is more fluid, with no clear boundaries.

When you’re up on the mountain, let’s say Carmel Center, and you say either your name or something in Arabic, there’s always that one person at least (usually a guy) who tilts his head slightly, gives you a conspicuous sideways glance. When you notice him, an awkward moment follows. The air between you is pulled tighter on its string. A few moments later, the string loosens up, but just so, followed by a silent, invisible bonding. It is not clear what the bonding is about – language, skin colour, roots? Such arbitrariness. He is startled to discover you there, in that public space that doesn’t wholly belong to you, but which essentially does. Because this part of Haifa has been long ago marked as the territory of the Jews. Your territory, where you can speak Arabic with abandon, is down there, below. Not up here, not on top of this occupied mountain. Down there, that’s where you officially belong. The encounter ends with a barely detectable nod, or a shadow of a smile – for a flicker of a moment, and then it’s gone.    

(c) khulud khamis, 2015

village life. Fragment from "Taboos in Arabic" - scene six. Hadeel

The first day of the last year in high-school. Biology class. Bisan can’t keep her eyes off Hadeel. Something fundamentally essential changed about Hadeel over the summer holidays. Hadeel, the strangest girl in school. Hadeel, always with her purple Beats headphones on – Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Rolling Stones, Queen. Loose jeans, friendship bracelets in all colours on the left arm, black leather bracelets on the right. Red high All Star sneakers – one green, one blue shoelace. Born and raised in the United States of America – the country where one can reinvent herself, the country of the free, the country of Bob Dylan, Walt Whitman, Janis Joplin, Kentucky Fried Chicken. Where even a black man – even a black man! – can become president of the United States of America. Hadeel’s family came back to the village when she was fifteen, after they lost their son – Hadeel’s older brother – to the streets. He was caught at the wrong time in the wrong place – gangsters’ shootout.

Hadeel was an outsider. It’s not like they didn’t want her to enter their circle. She refused to step in. But it was maybe because she knew she’d be spit out even before making the first step towards. Nobody knew what her voice sounded like.

She spent her summers back in the country of the free, at her aunt’s. But this year, she became even weirder. First day of the last year of high-school, and Hadeel shows up minus her long brown hair. Instead, short blue-dyed bangs peep from under a black baseball cap. The dozens bracelets replaced by a single friendship bracelet in dark purple and white. But there was something else about her. Her walk has changed. It was as if she were walking in another dimension. If, until now, she looked with an empty gaze at her classmates, she now saw through them. She was no longer the invisible one. It was the other way around – everyone else became invisible to her.

Bisan’s been finally able to decipher Hadeel’s Facebook. She’d narrowed down the possibilities to two profiles that could belong to Hadeel, but the blue bangs now featured on the profile picture of one of them. They had no mutual friends, and Hadeel’s Facebook was, like Hadeel herself, mysterious.

(c) khulud khamis, 2015 

Village life. Fragment from "Taboos in Arabic" - in progress. Scene four

Bisan is sixteen. History class. She’s doodling in the corner of her notebook. Her phone vibrates in her back pocket. She takes it out to find a Whatsapp message from Jumana, who’s sitting two rows behind her. ‘I’m so in love with Hamza, but my parents probably won’t let us marry, because he’s going to work in his father’s garage. Not a doctor or an engineer. Heart about to break.’ Bisan looks to her left, at Hamza. He’s lanky, his fingers too long for his hands. Pimpled forehead. Wears socks with sandals. ‘Ugh... Hamza? Yuck!’ She quickly checks her email before sliding her phone back into her pocket. To her right, Dalia is staring – no, glaring – at the teacher, head resting in her palm, a dreamy look on her face. Bisan counts the seconds between each eyelash bat. Thirty one, twenty seven, thirty four. She moves her gaze to Dalia’s arms, slick and bare – freshly waxed. Three new glittering gold bangles on her left wrist, a gift from her fiancé’s mother. Dalia got engaged two weeks earlier to a 28 year old lawyer from a village in the Triangle. They’re building a house; Bisan knows because her Facebook page is full of photos of the building site. Dalia stretches her sandaled legs – ten perfectly manicured rose-coloured toes. Twelve minutes till the end of class. Bisan is aware now of Dalia’s gaze on her. She looks up from the rose-coloured toes and meets her eyes. Dalia smiles. Bisan becomes all of a sudden aware of an unfamiliar tingling in her stomach. She quickly resumes her doodling, and realizes the source of the tingling was Dalia’s body. She throws a quick glance in Dalia’s direction – who’s now busy writing in her notebook – and is horrified to discover that the tingling only intensifies.

(c) khulud khamis, 2015

Village life. Fragment from "Taboos in Arabic" (in progress)

Bisan flips through some youtube reggae songs, turning the volume up, but it doesn’t drown the loud voices coming from the room next door. ‘We can’t force her, Abu Mahmoud. She wants to make something of her life. Not like me.’ Bisan changes position, rolls on to her side on the mattress, rearranges the pillow under her head, and props up the Samsung tablet on her left hip. Turns the music down now. She wants to hear this. ‘What do you mean not like you? Have I not provided a comfortable life for you? This house, financial security, you have everything. Everyone in the village envies you, Nidal.’ The swish of small feet across the corridor, the door opening, Assia and Sham tumbling in, breathless. Bisan puts her finger on her mouth and smiles. In exaggerated slow-motion, silent giggles, the two sisters dive into Bisan’s body. She gathers their small bodies into hers, inhales their outside scent, plants kisses on their heads. ‘I can’t read or write, Abu Mahmoud! What are you talking about?’ The three sisters breathe silently. Assia and Sham understand that something important is happening. ‘They married me off to you at 16! By 24 I had four children. I don’t want this for Bisan. She doesn’t want this.’ Assia sits behind Bisan and starts braiding her older sister’s hair. ‘When we married Mina and Siwar you never said anything.’ Sham has now taken over the Samsung tablet and is looking at Bisan’s Facebook profile pictures. ‘Bisan is different, can’t you see it? There must be something more to this life other than being a housewife and bearing children.’ Assia wraps the thick snake of a braid at the back of Bisan’s head. ‘And what do you want me to do? Let her go to Haifa on her own? I’ve seen these city women. She’ll become like them. Loose. Modern. We’re not like that, Nidal. A husband will protect her. Provide for her.’ Sham points at a picture of the three of them in the back yard, mouths ‘we are beautiful’ and smiles at Bisan. ‘She wants to study, Abu Mahmoud. Get herself an education. Become somebody, min shan Allah!’ Silence now in the house. The door of their parents’ bedroom opening, someone comes out, door closing. Heavy footsteps down the corridor. Front door opening, banging shut. Moments later, a small figure appears in the girls’ room. Um Mahmoud doesn’t wear a headscarf at home. Her hair, night-black, in a thick braid. She stands in the doorframe, smiles at her girls. But her eyes are tired, sad. ‘We’re going to fight for this, Bisan. My father didn’t name me Nidal for nothing. How long do we have?’ Bisan looks at her mother, this small woman who is carrying so much on her shoulders. Did she also have dreams that were crushed? ‘Registration’s open for two more months, mama.’ Bisan gets up and walks to her mother. ‘I’m so sorry, mama, you have to go through this with him.’ Her mother’s slim body fits into her embrace. ‘Sorry for what, binti? This is your right! I was stupid enough to have others decide for me, but it will not happen to you. I won’t let it.’ Nidal saw too many young girls in her village squish their dreams and submit to the ancient ways. This was a fight for all of them. ‘Yalla, let’s get some cookies, girls.’ She wriggles out of Bisan’s body, and walks down the corridor, head held high. Bisan smiles. She is surprised at the sudden outburst of courage. This woman, her mama, who has always done what was expected of her. The obedient wife, a perfect mother. Devoted to her family is what all neighbours said about Um Mahmoud. But until now, she had nothing important to stand up to.

(c) khulud khamis, 2015

Fragment from "Taboos in Arabic" in-progress

Fragment from "Taboos in Arabic." In-progress

The whole country is on fire. And not because of the Tammuz heat. Another military attack on Gaza, the world watching, but silently. Bisan is on a train heading to the Jaffa flea market, it’s a hot and humid Friday morning, the train is packed with soldiers. Everywhere she looks, she sees khakis and machine guns. She finds a spot near the doors and leans on the metal. Her camera is slung over her shoulder, turned on, lens cap off, just like Abu Maysara suggested. Always be ready.

The first thirty minutes – Bisan manages to shoot some random photos. At the Binyamina train station, several passengers get off, and Bisan finds a free space on the bottom stairs between the two train floors. She plays back the photos she shot. Boots, sandaled feet. The bottom half of a machine-gun. Two pairs of legs facing each other. The silhouette of one half of a person, leaning against the door. A splash of sunlight caught in motion. Moments of life frozen in a moving train.

The train pulls from the Binyamina station, people rearranging, empty seats fill up, new bodily odours add up to the air-conditioned space. Bisan notices some commotion mid-way down the wagon, gets up, camera waist-high, casually slung over her shoulder. She holds it at an angle directed straight in front of her. Forefinger ready to push the button.

- I’m not moving my bag for you.
- I would like to sit down. I have a ticket, and as I see it, this seat is not taken. Now, can you move your bag so I can sit?
- Hey! Soldier, come over here and check this out.

Bisan sees a soldier coming up to a woman in hijab. She comes closer. One shot. But she knows she didn’t get it right. She needs an angle that would show their faces.

- Can you show me your ID?
- What? You have no right! I am a passenger on this train, just like everybody else. What’s your reason for asking for my ID?
- Listen lady, just show me your ID and open your bag. Then you can sit down.
- Get off the train! You traitor!
- Dirty Arab! Go to Gaza!

Bisan shoots but more people are collecting around the woman and the soldier, it’s just a bunch of bodies. Quickly, she turns on the video function and puts the camera now to her eye. Nobody is paying her attention.

- Leave me alone. You have no right. What, because of my clothes? I’m a citizen like you, and entitled to public transportation without harassment.
- Death to Arabs!
- Ok, that’s enough. Leave her alone.
- Go to Gaza. There’s no place for traitors here. This is our country. There’s nothing for you here.
- I said that’s enough. Come, sit here.

Bisan’s hand is shaking. She makes a quick mental check to make sure she has no identifiers or any markers on her body that would betray her.

(c) khulud khamis, 2015. "Taboos in Arabic"

Interviewer trying to impose a religion on me

A telephone survey on the theme of Haifa city:

Interviewer: Are you from a Jewish, Muslim, or Christian family?
Me: Atheist
Interviewer: You have to choose from the three categories: Jewish, Muslim, or Christian?
Me: I already answered you. I’m from an atheist family.
Interviewer: But I have to indicate... ok, what’s your ethnic group? (she uses the word eda in Hebrew, which can also connote religious affiliation).
Me: Palestinian.
Interviewer: And the family background? Muslim or Christian?
Me: You can’t force a religion on me. I already answered your question.
Interviewer: But I have to indicate one of the three options. Jewish, Muslim or Christian?
Me: Listen, lady. I already responded to your question several times.
Interviewer: Your family. What background? Muslim or Christian?

At this point I informed her I was not interested in continuing the survey. I totally understand the need for categorization, especially if the survey’s goal is, for example, about mapping the needs of different groups in Haifa. But religious categorization doesn’t add any value. Yes, I would like to see the results of a survey with division according to Jews and Palestinians, as the needs of the Jewish society would be different than those of the Palestinian society in Haifa. But to do the division according to religion doesn’t contribute anything. It is another attempt at dividing the Palestinian society, nothing more than that. A gender categorization, for example, would be much more important, as the needs of women are unique and different than those of men. And with the current categorization they are forgetting that Haifa has more groups than the three offered. Have they forgotten that Haifa has a not so insignificant number of Bahai? What about those belonging to the Druze religion? Would she also try to force a Muslim/Christian choice upon them?

Haifa Fragments: The Politics of Literary Feminist Writing

Haifa Fragments: The Politics of Literary Feminist Writing Isha L’Isha - Haifa Feminist Center, my feminist home and community, are hosting a book launch of Haifa Fragments on 14 April 2015. We will engage in an an open discussion about Haifa, women breaking barriers and boundaries, love, writing and identity, belonging, and feminism Galia Aviani will facilitate the event, and Lilach Ben David will read from the book. A link to the event on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/events/1031851226828505/

Interview about Haifa Fragments with Susan Hawthorne of Spinifex Press

why I decided to vote for the Joint List

To vote or not to vote. That is not the question.

The Joint List has at first thrown me into confusion. I’ve always perceived voting as a personal responsibility as a citizen. But for the first time in my life, I had my doubts. I was confused. How can I vote for a list that has Islamists and nationalists and polygamists in it? So I decided I would not vote. But as the days passed, I realized that more than a responsibility, voting is my right. And it is a hard-earned right that women before me struggled for on my behalf. How can I not vote?
I started watching Ayman Odeh speak on TV. I read his statuses. Ayman, the shy kid who was my classmate in elementary school and then in high-school. Slowly, I began changing my mind. 

There is something I can’t quite put my finger on about Ayman. His discourse is at once fresh and nostalgic. He remains calm in every situation. He represents a new kind of leadership. Change. Something new.

I am voting for the Joint List because I’m sick of the old. With all its challenges and problematic aspects, I think it’s time to embrace change and uncertainty, because the old ways surely didn’t get us anywhere. So I am giving a chance, in the hopes that it will lead to change. Sometimes, we have to stride forward, change direction, and embrace uncertainty.

The process of writing

Every writer has to deal with what we have come to call the "writer's block". I don't call it a writer's block. For me, it is a process. I just read a discussion on Goodreads about writer's block and how writers deal with it. It has some useful tips, and people are sharing their ideas of how they face this challenge. I also joined the discussion, and am sharing here with you some of the ways I found to work out for me when the characters of my novel are stubbornly refusing to move forward. I'll update this post once in a while as I come across new ideas. You're welcome to check out the tips on Goodreads and join the discussion there.

1. I go for a run. It helps me clear my mind, and just when I'm not thinking about my manuscript, the thoughts come on their own. Usually a new perspective is revealed to me.
2. I try to end each writing session in a middle of a scene or in a place where I have an idea where to pick up from the next time. Then, the next time, I can pick it up from there rather than having to face a completely blank page.
3. I pick a good novel and read, notebook and pencil close to me. I get lost in a different world, and forget about my characters. It's similar to when I run. Just when you've completely forgotten about it, the ideas come on their own.
4. I write about my writing process in my journal. I put in writing what I think isn't working and why. Then I try to come up with solutions. Putting my thoughts down on paper helps me sort through them and process the challenges.
5. I don't write chronologically. I can leave a scene that isn't working and go on to write another scene, and come back to the earlier scene at a later stage. I don't believe in linear writing at all. With my first novel, I had the end scene written quite early on. It's more challenging this way, because you have to keep track of the narrative as well as character development, but you can have a lot of fun with it this way.
6. Taking time off from writing gives me a wider perspective. The story needs its own time, and I appreciate the process and time needed. 

- khulud

untitled - 2015

Three times
She has seen Death in her mother’s eyes.
The first – unexpected.
The other two times – invited.
Three times
She has heard Agony in her father’s voice.
The first time – raw fear.
The other two times – well, it doesn’t get any easier.
And she cannot afford to collapse.
Must be strong – ambulance bill, arrange shifts at hospital bed, talk to doctors, nurses, psychiatrist, social worker. Be nice, smile. Check on father, check on daughter, make sure they’re alright. Go home, sleep, charge phone, back to hospital. Be nice, smile. Must not collapse. Be strong. Be nice, smile.
(c) khulud, 2015

Haifa Fragments

I'm excited to share with you that you can now pre-order my novel, Haifa Fragments, from the website of my publisher, Spinifex Press.

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the friends that have supported me throughout the writing and editing process. My parents and daughter for putting up with me.

Special thanks of course to Susan Hawthorne, director of Spinifex Press, for giving me this invaluable opportunity to publish my work. And of course, Bernadette Green, my editor, who was simultaneously professional and gentle with my text.

I feel thankful for having completed this journey. Although it was tougher than I imagined at times, I cherish each moment of it.

I hope you enjoy reading the novel.

- khulud

25 November - International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women

Today, 25 November, the International Day for the Elimination of Violence against Women, I will participate in a panel organized by the Coalition of Women for Peace for Diplomats and International Partners in Israel. The panel is under the title: "Protective Edge. Attack on Gaza: Women's Insecurity and Anti-War Efforts."

I have not prepared anything in particular for this panel, as I will share my very own personal experience during the last summer. 

* The personal insecurity

* The fear to speak in my language

* The violent attacks on us after a peaceful demonstration

* Our attempts at making our voices heard, and finding an alternative to demonstrations through photography sessions , documentation, and poetry.

The below paragraphs were published by WorldPulse along with a short presentation of the photo album "War is Not My Language" in their Magazine.

In July 2014, Israel launched its military attack on Gaza, called Operation Protective Edge. The whole atmosphere inside Israel preceding and during this military attack was explosive in terms of Jewish-Arab relations. Anyone who dared raise a voice against the war or against the killing of civilians, or anyone who called for immediate cease-fire, was seen as a traitor and was attacked (sometimes verbally, sometimes physically).

We, a community of feminist activists from Haifa, Jewish and Palestinian women citizens of Israel, felt helpless. The public sphere was occupied by those advocating for the military action, and our voices against the war and against killing were silenced, often with violent means. We were physically attacked during demonstrations, Palestinian women feared speaking in Arabic in public spaces, and our spheres of action were rapidly shrinking. Thus, we convened an emergency meeting at the Haifa Women's Coalition House, and discussed our options. We took these photos in a safe space and shared them on social media—one of the only ways we had left to express our objection to the war and the killing, and to make our voices heard.

khulud khamis, 2014

The woman in the frame - fragment from "Taboos in Arabic"

Bisan was waiting. Breathing, trying to be patient. But nothing happened. Well, everything happened, but nothing of any significance to be worth a click of the Leica. She was leaning against a stone wall in Wadi Nisnas, at the edge of the souk. She’s been here the day before with her Canon 60D digital camera, and shot more than 200 frames. Today, she was here with film – only 36 possibilities. After about half an hour, she gave in and put the camera to her eye. She stood there like this for a minute, a statue. Didn’t move the camera, just waited for the people to walk into the frame. And they did. Over the next hour, she shot 35 frames. She wasn’t being too picky, nor was she focused as she worked. Her mind kept wandering back to Muna’s touch.

She was impatient about seeing the results, but had no other option but to wait until tomorrow to develop the film. The last photograph has to be different. She studied her surroundings. All 35 frames were taken with the souk in the background, people either on their way shopping with just a purse, or of people coming back from shopping, with plastic bags. Taher told her to pick one spot and use the whole film without moving. She turned around and faced the other direction, still standing in the same spot. The view was much duller and less colorful. She held up the camera to her eye, positioned the St. John’s church in the upper right corner of the frame, and waited. She had one shot and she wanted it to be exquisite.

She was just now beginning to realize what Taher had meant when he said to be patient. There was absolutely nothing extraordinary about the frame. She felt like a predator waiting on its prey. However, she was caught unprepared when an ancient man walked by with a walking cane. Although he was walking slow enough for her to take the shot, she couldn’t make the decision quickly enough, and the man disappeared behind the corner. The same thing was repeated twice again: a young girl who ran by and a man in his forties dressed in jeans and a black shirt. That’s it, not waiting for any magnificent moment! The next person walks into the frame – click! She didn’t have to wait long. She was so focused on her frame that she didn’t even see the woman. All she saw was the form of a woman. Click. And she was gone. End of film.

It was already dusk when she shot that last frame, and her hand slightly trembled. But she got the shot at the right moment, just as the young woman turned her head and looked straight into the camera. Bisan wasn't sure if she noticed she was being photographed, but it was a spontaneous moment, one of those that street photographers would kill for.

***

She had her Leica slung over her shoulder when she walked in the house. Her father was helping her mother set up the table for dinner. "New toy, I see," he said in disdain.

Her mother shot him a sharp look, "Leave her be."

"Why should I? She's not doing anything constructive with her life. All her high school friends are already finishing university, and she's still stuck in that musty old shop with ancient Taher."

Bisan ate in silence, since her father was talking about her as if she weren't there. She wouldn't get in the same argument with him for the hundredth time. It was useless to try to explain to him that photography for her was so much more than a passing hobby, not to talk about the fact that the Leica was definitely not a toy. 

***

The alarm clock went off at 5:30 sharp. Although she didn’t get much sleep, Bisan jumped out of bed and was out of the house by 6:15. She walked the short distance to Kamera in brisk strides, passing on her way a young woman in a sweat suit, a hoodie partially covering her head, jogging up the street. Who in their right mind would abuse their body in such a way? Bisan didn’t practice any sport. She didn’t need to, as she walked everywhere, even up to the Carmel, through Haifa’s maze of stairs that ran from the bottom of the mountain all the way to Carmel Center.

***

Salma

As Salma jogged up the street, she noticed the young woman with the old camera slung across her shoulder. She couldn’t know it was the same woman who took her picture the day before, as she wasn’t really paying attention. What coincidence. Someone takes her photo the day before. And now, a woman with a camera at 6:20 in the morning! Stalker? She jogged up to the roundabout at the end of Khoury street and headed back, trying to look inconspicuous. The camera woman didn’t look in her direction; she seemed impatient getting to wherever she had to get to, her stride full of intent. Just my imagination, thought Salma, as she increased her pace. She wasn’t making any progress in the last couple of weeks. At least she got back on track with her running. She was almost out of breath, but decided to turn around again and job back up. She reached the roundabout, and as she was jogging around it, she saw the camera woman on Ha-Nevi’im street for a brief moment before she disappeared into one of the buildings. Salma again increased her pace, salty sweat dripping down her forehead and into her eyes, and jogged in that direction. She jogged all the way to the end of the street, taking in the entrances. These were mostly businesses, but all were still dark. Weird. She looked at her watch and realized she was almost running late. She would just have enough time to shower and head to the university for her much-dreaded meeting with Hiba. She still had nothing other than some haphazard notes that didn’t amount to anything that could be considered to be sound research basis.

***

Bisan

Bisan saw the jogging woman twice more from the corner of her eye, the second time when she was already inside Kamera, still with the lights off. She was trying to apply the patience technique to her daily routine. Taher said it helped. So Bisan now sat in the dark Kamera in silence. She couldn’t take more than five minutes before she dashed to boot the computer and then turn on the lights. At nine sharp she unlocked the door, but there were no customers until around eleven except for one man who came in for some batteries. Miraculously, there were only two email orders from the day before, and one that came in around ten thirty. None of them were due for a few days, which gave Bisan enough time to develop the film from yesterday. Some thought kept coming back to her, but it was so vague she couldn’t pin it down. Something about the way that jogger carried her body, which she only realized now that she was already working. Detail! Taher always said it’s all in the details. Need to pay more attention, even when camera not on hip and ready to shoot.

When Taher walked in with some fresh-out-of-the-oven mana’eesh, Bisan had already gone through all 36 frames. They were neatly stacked next to the computer, and Bisan had printed an A3 size of frame number 36.

“What have we here? First prints from the Leica! May I?” Taher was peeking at the large print from behind Bisan’s tangled mess of curls. She handed him the stack of photographs without looking up and continued to study the one in front of her. Taher took another look at it before settling down with to study the ones she handed him. Weird kid. He could see the larger frame had potential, if it only wasn’t just a tiny bit out of focus. Give the kid some slack. She’s just a beginner, her first film shots.

Bisan was focused on the face of the woman in the frame. There was something familiar about her. But there was something else. Bisan has seen this face somewhere else. Shit! My memory is like that of my eighty-something years old grandmother! She put the photograph in the bottom drawer and went over to Taher. “What do you think? Just remember, my first film, so please be kind.”

“Kind? These are great, Biso! For a first film, I mean.” Bisan was ecstatic. She knew Taher didn’t give away compliments so easily. “Ok, let’s get the constructive criticism then.” She dragged a stool over to his side and the bag of mana’eesh, trying to push the woman from frame number 36 who happened also to be the researcher to a corner of her mind for now. She’ll deal with it later.

(c) khulud khamis, 2014 from Taboos in Arabic, novel-in-progress

***