Sunday, April 12, 2009

So What's It Gonna Be?

Nothing much has happened since our last conversation. Our discussions, carefully crafted by characters colliding into each other's cyberspace, seem so distant, like days preceding colonialism. In Doha, time's only competition is the relentless buildup of sand on picturesque dunes tucked away neatly behind bulging buildings.

Days slowly slide into each other to perfectly complete the picture of bland nothingness comparable only to Obama's next diplomatic delight. Writing under these conditions is a gut wrenching experience where the mind wrestles to grab metaphors out of nothing to color the white bleached dishdashas (traditional Arabic robes) dotting the desert.

I am falling victim to the mind numbing silence that so loudly permeates through my soul. My thoughts revolve around the play by play developments of days gone by. The coldness of my drink seems to worm its way deeper through my mind than the state of affairs shaping the new face of global fascism looming over our lives.

It has been almost three months since I made what seems to be an ill advised move to this corner of the world. Promises of exciting employment have yet to materialize, leaving me with a sense of non-accomplishment and misdirection.

A potential trip to Baghdad could salvage the losses suffered during this time, but such a trek seems tepered by a lack of funds, and more importantly, a shortage in support from my family, who is pushed further away from the idea by the recent spike of explosions in Iraq's capital city. There is still a possibility that I will be able to lose myself, and potentially my life, in the place I love the most, but much energy will need to be spent to achieve such gains.

I feel like I am writing out the final chapters of my life, not because of the dangers dug deep in my return from diaspora, but because of the rustification of my mind. An invasive dose of Arab satellite television and an illuminating aura of individualism seem to be decorating my grave right before my eyes, and under my dirty fingernails. Also, there is always the small possibility of death that accompanies each trip I take on the lonely accessible taxi in Qatar equipped with a wobbly weary worn down electric lift that seems ready to crumble on any given day.

A series of recent pilgrimages to the hospital could also be accentuating my mortal melodrama. Seeing the faces of hundreds of broken down construction workers wandering the halls of the country's central medical facility acts as a humble reminder of the privilege we possess, always prettily posing as the nature of things.

Perhaps it is here, where the corrosion of one's mind collides with the atrophy of our physical state, that the soul truly dies. May tomorrow bring life and inspiration to those who need it the most: me.


  1. This doesn't sound like the Ahmad I know.
    What has that place done to you??
    Just remember life is a series of ups and downs and if you're down right now, then there's really no where to go but up. Just wait for it.

    Take care Ahmad.

  2. Ahmed, I know the feeling. It haunted me during my last visit to Jordan. I surrendered to it and it was the most successful attempt at curbing failed expectations. Being the vaccation it was, it didn't matter, especially since I wasn't being the faithful witness to my life anyway.
    While my immediate reaction would respond to your entry blog with encouraging words, my experience stands against it. Without prescribing the artists' masochism that nourishes my own saddness, I want to tell you to not give up, as you said in your previous post to those that need a smile from you to continue the illusion of everything's alright. Sounds crazed but I support your anger and disillusionment. The blue pill nourishes us all (matrix reference).

    This does not stop me from wondering at times how people of the world, those engaging with the world on a very material basis (regardless of levels of success in those standards) live their day-to-day. Is it more comforting? Is their relationship to their existence more at-ease? Is the privilege of reflection creating imaginary burdens? On a preliminary basis, 'change' requires a vision and that does not come handed down. In my opinion, you are taking on the path of creating one and who said it would be easy. Courage my friend.

  3. The kind of boredom you write of; the temporary loss of direction and purpose (and IT IS TEMPORARY) are inconsequential when we take into balance the suffering of the very Iraq you long for.

    Let me see. There are about four million Iraqi refugees. Many of them are NOT rich and are forced to beg for some kind of remedial jobs in Syria, Jordan where have you, just to live hand to mouth.

    Those who cannot find even the most demeaning of jobs, prostitute. The number of your Iraqi sisters who have sold their bodies to fucking rich Arab 'bretheren' is overwhelming.

    You speak of you losing your soul? What of them?

    And they don't have the choice of living in Canada or Qatar. They do not have access to health care or even prospects for education like you do.

    They end up taking their own lives. THAT is the Iraq, your home. Your heritage.

    You have brains, you are a talented writer wasting your skills and acumen on self-pity. Concentrate your energies on doing something.

    There is so much good you can do. At least you are in the company of your family. There are some who have not seen their families in years.

    Alex G.