Saturday, November 7, 2009


On the train, our words held on to each other, refusing to let go. They lost themselves to the meaningless movements of other people's mechanical mouths. Letters sat in other letters' laps, small sentences got together with bigger sentences for warmth, and unspoken words took comfort in the presence of dancing eyes.

Paper reaches out to kiss the touch of my pen when I write about her. Saron. Lovers no more. Love beaten to death by exile, mutilated by denial, buried beneath a pile of broken promises. I knock on the windows of offices, and look for life in a paycheck. Broken necks and tasteless smiles come together like thieves and missing files. Lovers no more. I stand at my door, praying for rain to wash away the shame, but all remains the same, like the day Baghdad fell to her knees, but nobody came. Lovers no more. Standing on the shores of complacency, I beg the sea to take me to where I can beg and plea for forgiveness, but not for return. Once a poem is burned, all we can hope for are golden ashes to take turns in kissing the sky, and waiting for a moment to sit under our bleeding eyes.

I can never articulate the extent to which Saron made me a better person. Her version of the truth, long nights of kissing and loving through and through, brought the revolution closer to me and you. She stood on top of benches, and taught the wind how to move. She exposed the beauty of fighting diaspora through every curve and every groove. In every field of life, even those where the grass was replaced by an abundance of strife, her mind and its prowess cut through obstacles like a fearless knife. She showed me life in a light that I will never see again. I can't pretend that there are beginnings after every end. We can't even be friends, and now I spend moments like palm trees refusing to bend under the fire of Americans.

Saron, if these words are graced by the magic of your eyes, their size is no reflection of the state in which my heart lies. When love dies, the sea itself will capsize. So with no surprise, I take that which you gave me and color the skies, drawing circles and stars and planets with thick lines.

Moving Forward

The heart will never forget, even if the mind goes on its knees and begs. But like days decorating the dignity of Iraq, I won't stop. Love is there sitting on rooftops waiting for candy coated raindrops to pop.

In Doha, my world slowly unravels itself to the sounds of stubborn doors. I am thankful for the presence of love in my life. I have met the most beautiful souls, radically juxtaposing themselves against the cruelty of the falsely assembled cold. I dream of Toronto, and the songs written on the faces of my friends. But being within the reach of Bethlehem, Beirut, Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad heals my worldly wounds.

So many of the people here need to be described to you by me, but can't you see, writing on these pages is a tiring feat.

So with a little rest, I'll be back, like sunrises that can't wait to see Israeli soldiers getting smacked.


  1. I love it... wonderful. It's the only word that comes to my mind.

  2. big head. beautiful words habibi... Rafi misses you....

  3. Twisting and turning with the letters that form deep emotional attachments to your words, I ponder on what makes us whole in the absence of what forms our now. We are better people once loved and still loved by many soulful bodies around. We grow in abundance with every still moment that brings us in absolute presence of our existence; beyond exile, beyond what we've lost, beyond terror and aggression, beyond tear drops on your cheeks.... we are because of so many moments, and because of none all at the same time. In the absence of eyes that will flare with the skies stars of these words, let us appreciate that your breath utters with it divine meanings, words may be words, but our breaths together tell tales of justice that heals the hearts of those silenced. Allow the sunrise of every day to lift you like the sands in the Arabian deserts... allow the waves to pull you to the moon with every depressive thought... you are not your thoughts and emotions.. you are here.. present... still... alive.. and Loved by He who Loves to Love Love ...

    From the cold brittle winds of Toronto to the warm Sun rays of Doha... Keep your head high ... like mothers in Gaza and Baghdad after the loss of their babies...

  4. Paper reaches out to kiss the touch of my pen when I write about her. Saron. Lovers no more. Love beaten to death by exile, mutilated by denial, buried beneath a pile of broken promises.

    The demolishing of once a great nation is the greatest tragedy of the 21st century. It still is a great nation in the souls of its men, woman and children.
    No Matter where you go; there will always be a bit of it in you. The look on your face, the touch of your hand, the sparkle in your eyes, the teardrop on your cheeks; It will always be a part of you.

    "I can't pretend that there are beginnings after every end""

    Many cities, Different people, fake smiles, wide streets; 3 lanes, 2 lanes, 1 lane, long days, sweaty foreheads and palms; it never matters anymore. What’s broken cannot be fixed and can never be replaced. It's all the same, gloomy, happy, scary, and cheerful, it doesn't make a difference anymore.

    May Allah Refine your soul, Give you the strength you need, The power to believe in hope, and the energy we all need to rebuild an almost torn down nation and put it back on its feet.

    You are the reason it still exists. Never stop writing. That is the greatest power anyone can ever hold.

  5. Remember having an early consciousness, around 10, of the world suffering, with decolonization of Algeria and other countries occupied by France. At home, I would be authorized to look at "Cinq Colonnes à la Une", news from the world, this for the culture and, I was under the good influence of my mother who was very kind hearted.

    In 50 years, faces, culture, religion changed but exiled all cry the same tears of blood. This world is changing and struggle against tyranny has had some great success, only those have to be reinforced.

    Always thought how painful it would be if I had to exile from France, would miss Montmartre, that's for sure, was born there.

    To heal your wounds, find inspiration from those ex-exiled from Latin America or Africa. In the sixties and/or seventies, we never thought they would go back one day and they finally returned.

    Be angry, it will help you to forget your pain and will keep your eyes only in one direction, the future. You must neither forget nor forgive but you must forget your pain and be happy again.

    Hey poet, we all love you and need you and really thank you for the help you are giving us;)