ihath

Once upon a time, not so long ago and not so far away, lived a beautiful princess. The princess lived in a strange country surrounded by mountains and filled with rivers and valleys. Everybody lived a peaceful and happy life. There were no recent memories of crimes or deprivation in these lands. To the contrary, love and polite manners were the mark of the citizens of this country. Then suddenly, one winter’s night, out of nowhere, a scary monster invaded the dreams of the fair princess. Every night he repulsed the princess with his haggard appearance. He sneered his teeth angrily stomped his feet loudly and growled in heinous sounds that made even the tiniest of pomegranate pits shake in fear. He stole whatever he desired, and killed whomever he wished with nobody to defy him. The monster had declared himself the definitive master of the land.

Days and weeks passed and the poor princess woke up every morning ravaged by her sleep. She hoped that someone would rescue her from a most disastrous affliction. But all the brave heroes were in the land of sands battling a purple dragon with green teeth. After three weeks and two nights the princess became mortified of sleep and decided to pursue a life with no rest, not even a wink. But, weariness took its toll on the princess and within a month of the dreadful event she became unable to work, move or think. Even when she sat still on a chair, she felt as if thousands of needles where poking her in every pore of her skin.
And so the princess languished in despair and sat in front of her laptop. She started to search on Google hoping that she might find answers to her unique affliction. The princess searched the four corners of the internet, but hour and hours of frantic searching yielded fifty five questions and not a single solution. At the precise moment of her deepest despair was when her iPod began to play a random shuffle song from the distant land of the dunes. The Phrygian tune with its cycle of whole notes followed by semitones opened a flood of yearning that couldn’t be stopped. That is when the princess realized that the lord almighty had no intention of sending a knight in shining armor, but would rather inspire that which was not planned. The princess felt a sudden tremor in her body and stopped the random clicking on her keyboard and began to write a story.

Here is a clip from a Flamenco performance at La Zuppa Cafe (1544 Lonsdale Avenue, North Vancouver). If you go to La Zuppa make sure to try the paella - absolutly fantastic. I am the one dancing in the black dress.

When we were still living in Kuwait, my grandmother would come visit us from Czechoslovakia. My grandmother was a large woman with breasts as large as water melons. Her breasts were so large that she was able to hide beer bottles and other liquor bottles underneath them to smuggle the illegal substance into the Islamic country.

Her greatest joy and pleasure upon visiting Kuwait was going to the beach, since there is no access to the sea in Czechoslovakia, only lakes. Swimming in the salty water and walking on those big grains of sand was a novelty for an old European lady.
One early morning my mother decided to take her mother to the beach. Thinking that an early morning swim would enable them to have the beach all to themselves, plus avoid the unbearable noon time heat. ihath decided to stay home, but ihath’s brother, who was only about 12 or 13 at the time chose to join the beach going party.

At the beach my mother sat on blanket reading a book, while my brother and grandmother went swimming and splashing in the sea. After a while the old lady tired from all the excitement and decided to sit in the very shallow end of the water to enjoy a sandwich. The falling bread crumbs attracted tiny little fishes who were plentiful in those seas named the Persian gulf at the time and always seemed to be swimming together in large swarms. When all was good and happy, an angry wave couldn’t bare to see such innocent fun taking place when only miles away war raged. The angry sea wave gathered up all her strength and decided to splash over the old European lady spoiling her sandwich with salty water. The hostile wave was successful in its mission only too well. But, as always, vigorous actions have unintended consequences. A tiny little fish was swooped up in the determined wave and found itself swimming on the inside of my grandmothers’ swimming suit when only moments ago it was swimming on the outside of my grandmothers’ swimming suit. The fish flapped around in alarm attempting to escape confinement. When my grandmother sensed something moving about inside her swimming suit, she was dumb founded by the strange sensation and began to scream. My brother reacted immediately by pulling open the front side of my grandmothers’ swimming suit and sticking his hand down the same path the fish went only moments ago. He tried to grab the fish and throw it back in the sea, but the fish kept slipping away. The young man, barely a man, more like a boy stood over his sitting grandmother ,who was still screaming, attempting to the best of his abilities to grab the poor fish.

At that very same moment, a police car was driving by on the road across from the beach. My mother, still sitting on the blanket, noticed the police car come to a sudden halt. The police officer jumped out of the car leaving the car door open. He began to run towards my family as fast as he could. My mother noticed that he was placing his hand on his gun as he ran towards them. From a distance, it seemed that a woman was swimming in the sea minding her own business when a man decided to sexually assault her right on the beach. The desperate screams of the woman were a further proof of her distress and her desperate need for a knight in shining armor to come to her rescue. The police office’s perception was quickly surmised by my mother. She knew that swift action was required before a tragic ending could take place to what started as humorous incident on the beach. My mother jumped right in front of the police officer and yelled ‘Stop!’. ‘This is not what you think’ she continued after a suitable dramatic pause. ‘The woman sitting in the sea is my mother and that is my son’ she tried to explain to the police officer. ‘But, if that is his grandmother, then how come he is touching her boobs?’ The police officer asked in a disbelieving tone of voice. My mother told him about the wave and the fish. From up close the police officer could see that the damsel in distress was really an old lady and that what seemed like an crazy predator was really a young man, almost a boy. After a contemplative pause the police man relaxed, wished the beach revelers a good day and walked back to his car.
I myself, did not inherit my grandmother’s secret smuggling compartment, but certainly inherited the family’s legacy of causing mischief even in the most innocuous of situations. I don’t go around looking for mischief. It just seems to always find me.

I woke up hearing flamenco guitar. In between states of sleepiness and awakeness, I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming the music or actually hearing it. “Maybe one of travel companions got all exited and decided to play a flamenco CD”, I thought to myself. But since the music was stopping and starting, I finally realized that a guitarist was playing underneath my window. That is how I woke up on my first day in Seville. It was the perfect start to what continued to emerge as the most perfect trip. Seville, whose streets lined with orange trees, weeping fountains and breezy courtyards, is the throbbing heart of this magical art form called flamenco. And that is where I went recently with two companions to explore and experience to the maximum. During the day I was taking dance classes and in the evening I was attending shows. In short, I was in heaven. Completely submerging myself in something that I love. I was a happy fish swimming in my favorite waters. All was beyond perfect, more than I had wished for. In a world or turmoil and upheaval, innocent fun can be painful to bear for some.

My rhythm and clapping class was extremely useful and I learned plenty about the different flamenco rhythms and how to listen to the music. Our teacher, who shall be renamed, was very knowledgeable and had a beautiful voice. Frequently he sang in the class. However he also had an arrogant attitude which implied “I know this stuff and you guys are too stupid to get it”. On my second day of classes, when I asked him about something which I didn’t understand he replied by saying “you will understand this in your next life” … Ouch! … what a nasty comment. That night my travel companions and I nicknamed him “Estúpido Bastardo “ which means stupid bastard in Spanish. His standard answers to questions frequently included “Flamenco is very difficult”, “You need to live in Andalucía for many years before you can understand this” and “You need to listen to lots of Flamenco”. While his nasty comments where spread across all the students in the class, I seemed to be singled out for the most awful ones. I spend the next 10 days thinking about the perfect way to seek revenge on Estúpido Bastardo for his demeaning comments. My options were - make fun of his physical appearance, ridicule his pathetic English or disrupt the class in some way that would annoy him. None of the three options seemed very satisfying. I kept hoping that an opportunity would come up that would allow me to get back at him for his arrogant attitude. The perfect opportunity came up on the last day of classes when Estúpido Bastardo was saying goodbye to all the students and he would shake hands with each one and give them a kiss on each cheek as is customary in Spain. When he approached me to say goodbye. I stuck my hand out in an obvious manner as to say please don’t come too close to me. Being a Estúpido Bastardo he ignored my body language and kissed me on each cheek anyway. My reaction to that was to make a facial gesture of absolute disgust as if I was just kissed by a slimy slithering lizard. I could see on his face that he was very upset by my reaction. My message got across. Estúpido Bastardo got his just dessert. Ha ha ha ha ha! Perhaps he will learn some humility in this life.

I am in Red.

We are performing in Aberdeen Shopping Center, Richmond.

The following is a story written by my eldest daughter (age 13)

The Heart Hunter

My seventh painting
Acrylic on Canvas
20x16 inches

There were numerous times when I would get a phone call at work around noon to be informed by my husband that he had invited 10 people over for dinner that very same night. In which case I would have to rush out of work early in frenzy to do grocery shopping, get home, clean up the house and have dinner ready for when the people arrived.

That was followed with desperate pleas to husband to please, please, please inform me a few days ahead whenever he wanted to invite people over for dinner so that I would have some time to prepare.

Then there was the time my husband invited people from his work to a dinner party at our house only he got the dates mixed up and told different people different dates and so some people arrived to the party on a Saturday and others arrived the following Sunday …. Thank god for leftovers.

That was followed with me making up a rule that next time he invites a big group of people over for dinner. I will write up the dinner invitation text with the correct date and time and forward it to my husband by email and he has to copy the exact copy of the text that I sent him and email it to all his invitees un-altered.

Then there was the time he invited three people for dinner, one was an Israeli who spoke nothing but Hebrew, the second was a Palestinian who spoke nothing but Arabic and the third was a visiting student from China who spoke Chinese and poor English. I spent the whole evening attempting to keep a conversation going, by asking one of our guests a question and then simultaneously translating it into the other two languages and then translating the responses back. Back and forth in Arabic, Hebrew and English for hours. By the end of the evening I was beyond exhausted and suffered from headache.

This was followed by me making up a rule that he was only allowed to invite people at the same time if all of them shared a common language.

Then there was the mother of all dinner pranks that my husband played on me. It all started with me coming home early from work because Mordecai - a good friend of many years -was visiting us from abroad. His visit was arranged weeks ahead. He was arriving late in the evening and so I had plenty of time to get the guest bedroom ready and make a nice dinner for our dear friend. I knew that my husband was working late that night in a laboratory where there are no phone lines and my husband couldn’t be contacted. As soon as I stared frying some onions in frying pan in preparation for my stuffed grape vine leaves (called dolma in Iraq). The phone rang.

ihath: Hello.
Man: Hello! … I am Vincent … I arrived.
ihath: Ha?
Man: I am Vincent, I am here, I am at the central bus station, when will you come to get me?
ihath: what? …. (I never met or knew this guy at all)
Vincent: Your husband said that I could spend the night at your house and that you would come pick me up from the central bus station. I just arrived from France.
ihath: ok.
Vincent: So, when will you come and get me?
ihath: errr …. (hesitation …. thinking on my feet …) I am coming right away.

So I packed my two year old daughter into her car seat and drove to the central bus station. My husband never informed me of a Vincent that was going to stay with us on that evening, but I couldn’t call my husband to confirm the story with him. As I was driving there I kept on thinking to myself “I hope I am not on my way to pick up a serial killer”. I arrived at the busy bus station looking for what might be a French man named Vincent. In one corner, next to a public phone I saw a scrawny young man with a lost look on his face, I asked him if he was Vincent and he responded with a big smile. A hand shake was followed by quick introductions and soon enough Vincent was in my car on his way to my place. On the way home, a terrifying scenario occurred to me. “My husband arrives home from work late, and no look of recognition appears on his face. Instead I get a puzzled look and get asked the question -Who is this guy?. Then ,in panic, I have to explain to my husband that I received a phone call from a young man I never met before and then I proceeded to collect him from the central bus station, brought him home and decided to give him dinner.” … “Oh my Go! … I hope my husband does actually know this guy” I kept praying as I drove home. Dinner was not even started and so heated up some leftovers for Vincent. As we sat chatting together, Vincent informed me that he was a former student of my husband back in the days when my husband was teaching at Glasgow University. Luckily my husband did in fact recognize Vincent, when he arrived from work at last. After some chit chat and small talk, I gave my husband the look that communicates “I need to talk to you in the kitchen”
The following conversation happened in the kitchen.

husband: Look, I know what you gonna say. I am sorry I completely forgot that I had told Vincent that he could stay with us. I know I messed up.
ihath: But where is he going to stay? You know that our friend Mordecai is coming tonight. I already planned for him to stay in the guest room. This was planned weeks ago. Where is Vincent going to sleep?
husband: ( ..pauses … scratches his head) …I know. Our friend Simon is out of town and I have the key to his apartment. I will take Vincent to stay there.
ihath: But Simon comes back from Europe tonight.
husband: No he doesn’t, he comes back next week.
ihath: I distinctly remember that Simon said that he was coming back from his trip from Europe tonight.
husband: No, no, no, I am certain that Simon comes back next week.
ihath: Anyway, I don’t think that Simon will appreciate you letting some stranger stay at his place. He gave you the key to keep an eye on his place not to use his apartment as a hostel.
husband: Look! Don’t worry about this. Ok!. I created this mess, I will fix it. You go back to whatever you were planning to do and I will take care of the Vincent situation. Let me handle this. Ok!
ihath: sigh! … ok!

I go back to making dolma.



The next morning, bright and early, the phone rings. I answer the phone to find Simon on the other line. It turns out that Simon had met our friend Vincent already. Simon arrives from Europe after a long trip to his apartment late in the evening, all tired and jet lagged looking forwards to getting to bed, only to find a man he never met before in his bed. The young man was sleeping tight and so Simon walks out of his apartment and knocks on the door of the next door neighbor. The lady next door opens the door.
Lady Next Door: Hi, Simon you are back.
Simon: Hi, who is the man sleeping in my bed.
Lady Next Door: It is the French guy that came with your buddy.
Simon: What French guy?
Lady Next Door: I can’t remember his name, but he had a French accent and he come with your good friend. We figured since he was with your friend he was ok.
Simon: Ok, thank you. I will have to figure this out tomorrow morning.

So poor Simon goes to sleep on the couch in the living room of his own apartment. The next morning Vincent wakes up to find a man sleeping on the couch. The following conversation follows

Vincent: Who are you?
Simon: I am Simon, I live here, who are you?
Vincent: I am Vincent, I was brought here by your good friend.

So Simon makes him breakfast and arranges a taxi for Vincent’s next destination in his tour around the world.

This was followed by me abdicating any effort to try to regulate my husband’s crazy dinner guest arrangements. The more rules I made the more creative my husband became at throwing new challenges in my face. So every dinner party that my husband arranges, I say a prayer and hope for the best.

O! I forgot to tell you about the time when my husband told me about the dinner party days ahead, which I greatly appreciated. After I finished cooking all the food and making all preparations he informed me that he forgot to invite the people he was planning to invite. But, this post is already too long.

Since we were growing up in an undemocratic country my father decided that he would teach us about democracy by instating it in our family. “We are a democratic family”, my father declared with pride one day. Every Thursday evening, the family central council would meet to discuss issues set in the agenda. Each member of the council could speak up about his/her opinion on a given matter and after each person made his or her arguments, the council would vote. That is how we decided on family vacations, which restaurant to have lunch at on the weekend and family purchases. Over time a clear balance of power emerged. There was the party of the kids and the party of the parents. It seemed that my brother and I always voted the same way and my mother and father voted together. This young democratic experiment was a happy one …… well only for a little while. Historically, transition to democracy is frequently associated with political and social upheaval and the transition from monarchy and feudalism to giving power to the common person is fraught with difficulty. Our family was not above the tragedy of the human history.


Along came a T.V. show from far away land, from a far away country called Lassie. A show about an exceptionally beautiful dog that frequently outsmarted humans. Despite her many superior qualities, Lassie always returned to her owner and served him in a most loyal fashion. In those childish innocent days, us kids blurred reality with what we saw on T.V. And allowed our naïve imaginations to be invaded by influences from sinister sources. Enchanted by magical fantasies presented succinctly on that tube we went about our days dreaming of one day owning such a dog. A dog that saves you from bad people, can empathize with your feelings and even make your deepest desires come true. Then one day, as if by magic, I saw Lassie. No! not the T.V. show. But a real dog.

On the beach shore in Kuwait, we met a young man that owned a dog that looked like Lassie. My heart pounded with delight, my brother and I were exceptionally happy when the young man allowed us to pet his dog which we saw as being magical. Then the young man told my mother, that his dog had given birth to several puppies and he would be happy to give us one of them if we wished. O the thought of owning a dog like Lassie, it seemed like the best thing that could happen in the world. With delight we went home to get father’s approval to get a dog into our house. When we suggested the idea, my father objected strongly, sighting the fact that we live in an apartment and that a dog needs large spaces to run around in and so we weren’t allowed a dog. He also added that he hated dogs and couldn’t stand the sight of one, nevertheless have one living with him and so the idea was completely out of the question. On Thursday the family council met as usual and I tabled a motion to allow a dog into our humble abode. The kids party voted yes, but the unexpected happened and a vital member parents party defected from her usual alliance with the party of the parents and chose just this once to vote with the party of the kids. Much to my father’s astonishment, my mother voted yes to getting the dog. My father relied sternly that no dog would be allowed into our apartment and that it was either him or the dog in the house … end of discussion. “But Dad! … what about democracy, we voted and the yes vote won, you are not allowed to say no in the face of democracy”. “As the bread winner of this house hold, I retain the veto right, I am applying the veto right on this matter” was his answer. We objected, we held rallies in the living room of our place protesting the veto right. We made up placards with slogans and hanged them in our rooms “Down with the Veto right!”, “Say no to father’s dictatorship!” we plastered all over the house. When all civil disobedience methods failed to move my father from his position we resorted to more childish methods. We cried, we pleaded, we had tantrums, we held hunger strikes which only lasted a single evening and we promised we would be really really good and well behaved for the rest of our lives if we were allowed to own the dog. None of the methods, both mature and childish, were met with any success. The dictator was adamant in his position that no dogs were allowed in the house and that was that.

From then on, we called my father’s democracy the one-legged democracy. A democracy where the little people got to decide on matters of little consequence but got ignored on the really important issues.


I myself don’t create illusions of being a democracy within the bound of my own family. For one, there are three kids in my family and therefore the party of kids would always be stronger than the party of the parents. Besides, I live in a democratic country and therefore feel no obligation to instate foolish notions in my house hold since my kids will learn about democracy from school and by growing up in Canada. When the dog issue came up a few years ago, the answer was No, no fuss no muss. Then the year ago the kids wanted a cat, again the answer was a simple no. My kids begged and pleaded, telling us the all other kids had a pet in the house, but my simple criteria was that I spent eight years of my life changing diapers and now that all three kids were out of diapers, I had absolutely no desire to clean poop. Each time I go for a walk and see somebody scooping poop after his dog, I think to myself “Thank God I don’t have to do that, how disgusting”. There is no power on earth that will make me scoop some animal’s excrement several times a day. When I changed diapers at least I felt love and dedication towards my own child, but with some animal, no thank you I don’t need the headache. My kids tried to convince me that they would do all the work, but I told them that I know that they would do the work for the first two weeks and lose interest afterwards and it will be me left holding the feces. Then finally , two months ago, the kids came home one day demanding that we get hamsters. Again I gave them the standard “I changed diapers for eight years and don’t want to deal with stool any more”. The kids begged and pleaded but I was stead fast in my refusal sighting the waste material veto right. When my eldest daughter told me that my refusal was undemocratic, I reminded her that we are not a democratic family. We are not even a pretend democratic family like the one I grew up in. We are a “The one that cleans the poop gets to decide” kind of family. Many philosophical lively discussions followed. Then, the unexpected happened. A defection. A member of the parent dictatorship sympathized with the poor oppressed kid masses. My husband, told me that the kids have been wanting a pet for years and we have always said no. That it is unfair that all other kids have a pet, but not own kids and that perhaps we should consider getting hamsters. Besides hamsters are easier to take care of because they stay in a cage. Now I was in a difficult position. It was me against all three kids and my husband. I was the evil parent person. Everybody was giving the look that says the whole world would be great if you would just change your mind. Argh! What could I do.

I guess I am the one-legged dictator

Meet hamster named nibbles



Meet hamster named caramel


My son decided to go back to his favorite action figure after one of the hamsters peed in his hand. He is the smart one on the family.

Recently I returned from a work related trip in Dallas Texas. While there, I had an unexpected encounter with a peculiar big little fellow. One evening as I lay in bed in my hotel, pondering the busy events of the day, I saw a cockroach climbing the wall of my hotel room. Immediately, I felt my muscles seize up with hysterical fear from the sight of long lost creepy crawly that I hadn’t seen in years and years and years. Not since I lived in Kuwait long time ago, had I seen what was once a familiar sight of the hairy legged winged insect. I suddenly missed my husband and yearned for his presence next to me. Under normal circumstance I would scream “Aaaaaaaaah! There is an insect in my bed room” and make a quick exit. Waiting for the reassuring voice of my beloved husband: “It is fine Habibati (my beloved in Arabic), I dealt with it, you can come back now”. But since my husband was not with me, hysterical shouting and a quick exit - method wasn’t going to achieve much. I remembered the wise words of a brave woman – “A woman needs a husband, like a fish needs a bicycle”. “Come on ihath, you are a strong woman, you can deal with this on your own”, I tried to tell myself. But despite all my strength, strong believe in feminism and claim to bravado, I am one fish that knows intellectually that she doesn’t need to ride a bicycle but emotionally enjoys a ride on it anyway. My yearning for my bicycle – ehm! I mean husband only increased the more I thought about how to deal with the unexpected visitor. “Oooooooo! Where is my bicycle – ehm! I mean husband when I need him the most” I told myself. Finally, in complete desperation, I called the front desk hoping for an easy resolution to my dilemma. “Don’t worry ma’am, I will send somebody to deal with it right away” was the response of the lady at the other end of the phone. A few minutes later, my hoped savior arrived in the form of an elderly Mexican gentleman who didn’t speak English. He said something in Spanish which I didn’t understand and I pointed at the wall where the cockroach was leisurely crawling around and quickly exited the room to seek refuge in the washroom, feeling too embarrassed to stand in the hallway in pajamas. I could hear the rusted bicycle – ehm! I mean elderly man moving around in the room and moving things around for about 15 minutes. I could hear him dragging the bed around and then dragging the desk in the room around and some rustling sounds, followed by huffing and puffing. Finally, Mr. Rusty, as I decided to nick name him walked towards the washroom and I opened the door so that I could hear what he had to say. He mumbled something in Spanish which I didn’t understand, the expression on Mr. Rusty’s face was saying: “I am sorry the cockroach hid somewhere, I tried to find him, I even moved furniture around, but I can’t find him, you are on your own with this guy, there is nothing else I can do for you”. I said “Thank you” and my failed savior left the room.


So I guess not all bicycles are created equal. My beloved bicycle back home would have rode roughshod over the creepy crawly in seconds to appease the damsel in distress. Darn!

So I sat back on my bed feeling panic wash over me, unable to sleep from worrying that the thing would re-emerge any minute and jump on me or something of similar nature. As I sat there staring in all directions, paralyzed with fear, I remembered days from long time ago, many many years back, back when I lived in Kuwait. Where the hot weather, similar to Dallas’ would attract cockroaches to roam proud and free especially in the summer months. It was peculiar that a sight of a heinous hairy legged creature would remind me of childhood years from long ago and far away. In my insomniac state, I started thinking about all the similarities between Dallas and Kuwait. The hot and humid weather, the massive air-conditioning everywhere you went, the contrast between hot and cold each time you walked in or out of a building, the flat terrain and off course cockroaches. So far away, yet so close. A blast from the past. Then I started remembering my mother’s hysterical fear of cockroaches when we lived in Kuwait. I remembered one particular funny incident.

One evening, in Kuwait, we returned home from an outing. My dad turned on the light and right in the middle of our living room was sitting a cockroach, right on the floor. I was a child at the time, probably around eight or nine years old. My mother started shrieking hysterically and jumped on dining table. The poor cockroach didn’t move an centimeter. He was probably too terrified from my mother’s continuous screaming. My father tried to tell my mother to calm down, but she wouldn’t stop screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally my father decided to ignore the screaming and went to fetch a newspaper. Al-Watan (The country) was his favorite daily read. A few quick bangs on the cockroach with a news paper followed and finally my father threw the whole mess in the garbage. The he came to where my mother was standing on the dining table and commanded her to stop screaming and to get down from the dining table since the crisis was over. The next morning, bright and early, we were visited by our next door neighbor, Amina. She was a close and trusted friend of my mother’s. My father had gone to work already. Amina sat on the couch next to my mother and started to talk to her in a counseling voice: “I am sorry about what happened yesterday, I know that these things are tough. But these things do happen. You can come move in with us and I will get my husband to have a talk with your husband”. My mother looked surprise and replied: “Ha? What are you talking about? talk to my husband about what?”. Amina replied: “Look! I know that you feel embarrassed about what happened last night, but you shouldn’t be feeling that way, it is important that you know that what happened wasn’t your fault”. Amina heard the screaming from the previous night and thought that my mother was receiving a severe beating from my father and tried to the best of her abilities to be the sensitive and supportive friend. When my mother assured her that the hysterical scream was at the sighting of the dark winged hairy legged creature and that the only beating was conducted on the poor creatures head, Amina looked in disbelief. Despite my mother’s assurances and swearing that the events as that had been described were truthful and were not a cover-up for a shameful family dispute, Amina was not persuaded and left our house with a suspicious look on her face. My mother laughed at the incident while recounting it to my father’s horror. “Great! Now the whole neighborhood thinks I am a wife beater” – was my father’s response.

Back in Dallas, in my hotel room, I remembered my other funny incidents involving cockroaches and my mother in Kuwait. At least my response was not as extremely hysterical as my mother’s. An hour of reminiscing passed until the unexpected visitor emerged again crawling on the wall. “What do I do now?” I asked myself. Screaming and exiting my room wouldn’t help me because my husband wasn’t there, calling the front desk proved to be equally ineffective. And so, I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. Armed with a copy of “Dallas Morning News “, I executed the number one enemy of my sleep with several firm bangs on his head. The whole mess was quickly deposited into the garbage. I washed my hands thoroughly twice afterwards. Even though the enemy had been successfully disposed into history’s trash bin, I wasn’t able to resume my normal sleep procedure for the rest of the night. The thought “Eeeeew! I killed a cockroach” wouldn’t leave my mind. The next morning I was tired but I felt proud at having proved to myself that I could handle the situation without the aid of a man. Gloria Steinman would have been proud.

I am a fish that doesn’t need a bicycle, but enjoys riding it never the less.

Clip from this years show

Literay cafe author discusses writing

I just finished reading “The Shia Revival: How Conflicts within Islam Will Shape the Future - By Vali Nasr”. It is a good introduction about the Sunni and Shia conflict over the last 1400 years. The book also describes how the new Shia dominant Iraqi government is tipping the status quo of the Shia/Sunni conflict and causing problems for countries like Saudi Arabia and Pakistan. The author seems to be sympathetic to the Shia side and gives less consideration to the Sunni side of the story. I found the book a bit of a disappointment, since most of the information covered in the book I knew already. The only part that I learned was about the different Shia traditions in different countries like Pakistan and India which I am not familiar with. I was expecting a deeper analysis of the current situation in Iraq and future projections as to how a new balance might shape up. In addition, I found one historical mistake in the book. When he talks about the Lebanese civil war, he mentions the involvement of the Shia Amal militia in the mascre of Sabra and Shatila refugee camps, which is incorrect, Amal was not involved in that incident. I believe that the author was confused with a different incident at Tal El Za'atar which the Amal militias did in fact raze to the ground.

Despite some of the short comings of the book, I think that it would make a good introductory reading for the western reader. It is written in easy language and is easy to understand.

Flamenco is the music that combines influences from east and west to produce something uniquely beautiful.
Come capture the raw passion of Flamenco and get to see ihath perform.


8 pm
Flamenco Student Recital
June 23 - Saturday
Vancouver Play House
(located on the southeast corner of Hamilton and Dunsmuir Streets in downtown Vancouver)
You can buy tickets at the door

The Harrison festival of arts, held in Harrison Hot Springs of British Columbia, will run between July 7th to July 15 2007. It will include artists and performers from all around Canada.

I was very honored to be asked to join the literary cafe event and read from my book.

Monday, July 9 8:30pm


You can also read an article covering the upcoming festival in Abbosford News in an article titled Plenty of talent set for Harrison festival

So if you ar planning to be in Harrison around that time, please come by to enjoy what is going to be an awesome evening.

Last night I went to see:
Paco Peña Flamenco Company
Accompanied by the Vancouver Chamber Choir
Requiem Flamenco
In Praise of the Earth
April 6th,2007
At the Orpheum Theater in Vancouver

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Paco Peña is a famous flamenco guitarist from Spain. Given my fondness of Flamenco I couldn’t pass on the chance to see him perform live. My favorite part of the show were the three flamenco singers: Rafael Moya Montilla, Miguel Perez and Eva De Dios. All three had superb moving and powerful voices that exemplify the best that Flamenco has to offer. The Vancouver Chamber Choir had good voices as well but I felt the interchange between flamenco voice and choir voices worked sometimes and didn’t work other times. When it worked it sounded beautiful but other times it felt a bit awkward. When the dancer Ángel Muñoz started dancing I found my heart being burnt with envy, wishing that one day I could dance with that level of skill. He did complicated footwork really fast, yet he made it seem effortless, he didn’t even break a sweet. I also liked that fact that he wasn’t so stuck on being the macho guy; although he looked very strong and masculine, he wasn’t afraid to perform soft movements that are more typical for woman dancers including movements that require hip shaking. The total effect was magnificent. I left the show feeling spell bound and inspired to dance.

Recently, I changed jobs. I was surprised by the show of affection that I got from my co-workers. Among the gifts, cards, will wishes and sweet emails. I also received a huge painting that my coworkers participated in painting for me. Knowing of my interest in painting and arts, they got a canvas and each one painted something on it for me. I was touched. This is the best parting gift I got from co-workers ever.

Three and a half years ago, I asked myself a question.

When I was young, in my early twenties, I was naïve, stupid and I lacked experience. But with that came a certain sweetness and innocence. Then as I got older, I had to face life. With experience I gained wisdom and knowledge. I am able to see more clearly how the world works and how people behave. I am able to understand things that seemed strange or at least accept that they are the way they are. With that comes cynicism, skepticism. Nothing is what it seems. Look for the inner motivation and the hidden agenda. Once I was able to think about what motivates people, I realized that I could manipulate a situation to my advantage.

Three and a half years ago, I asked myself a question. Is it possible to grow wise and yet remain sweet?

Is it possible to look at what is going on in life clearly, without sugar coating it and remain hopeful? Can I understand but not become manipulative? Can I be practical yet live with integrity? Can I be realistic and not compromise? Can I?

My eldest daughter believes that I can read her mind. For example the other day, I was outside taking out the garbage, when I came inside, I found my daughter wiping the tiles in the kitchen. "What did you spill this time?" I asked her. "How did you know that I had spilled something?" She answered with amazement. "Experience my dear", I want to tell her. "I have been around this earth much longer that you and I can guess what your thinking and feeling with one glance at you face". But letting her believe that I can read her mind is easier. That way she is reluctant to lie to me.

I learned when I was child that depending solely on my emotions is wrong, because I noticed that my emotions had failed me on many occasions. I decided at age 8, that would be a rational person, a person of reason. While living in Jerusalem at age 28 I realized that my reason had failed me as well and that I couldn't approach life through solely depending on my logic because it was badly flawed. For the past several years, I have attempted to grasp spirituality and depend soley on my sense of intuition, disassociating myself from reason and my emotions. Doing things which didn't make sense, but that my gut feeling told me was the thing to do. Today as I approach 38, I can see clearly that all three approaches are flawed. That God gave me reason, feelings and a spirit. I will attempt to use all three in an integrated way. Ignoring one is an abuse of a given gift. While the last few years
have been an interesting and a useful experiment, I don't regret it, I can finally see where I went wrong.


I spent three and a half years, waiting patiently for an answer. Observing quietly in corner. Standing in a swimming pool and allowing the waves to come over me, resisting the urge to make waves. The answer came loud and clear.

Yes!

My sixth painting
Acrylic on Canvas
20x16 inches



Photographed by Doug Hayes.

I don't like it.

Google came out with the Google Desktop, which you can download here. As part of that you get a side bar where you can install gadgets. These are little useful apps that sit on top of the Google Desktop Sidebar. I have developed a little google gadget that displays a daily inspirational qoute.



You can download it here

You first have to download and install the Google Desktop, then you can download the ihath-inspirational gadget. Finally, double click on ihath-insprational.gg file and you will be get a daily inspirational qoute.

"I will not paint a vase of flowers" I declared to myself when I started painting. Everybody and his dog paints the vase of flowers and then when they want a change they paint potted flowers. How boring. Each time I went into an art gallery and saw flowers painted on canvas, "O that wasn't done before .... not!" I found myself thinking.

Yesterday, I took a day off from work and ended up walking around Granville street where many art galleries are situated. It was raining heavily and I walked around with an umbrella. Art gallery after art gallery had paintings that my brain erased from memory as I was viewing them. The rain, cold and boring art was putting me to sleep and making me yearn for my bed. And then ... I walked into the Bau-Xi Gallery to find vivid colors and intense emotions disguised as paintings of flowers. I couldn't keep my eyes of the paintings ... they were seductive. I am talking about the Bobbie Burgers exhibit. My absolute favorite was the picture below titled "A Burst of Emotion".



I left the gallery feeling warmed up from all that beauty and inspired to attempt to paint flowers.

If you live in Vancouver, I highly recommend that you visit the Bau-Xi gallery this weekend, otherwise you have to contend with looking at pictures from the website of the artist and the gallery.

When I explained to my family about intenational woman's day last night. My son, who is only 6 years old, became upset. "This is not fair, How come there is not special day for boys?" he complained as he stomped his feat.

So my husband and I declared that March 9th is Intenational Boy's Day.

So to all the boys out there, Happy Intenational Boy's Day

My eldest daughter, madeup a story for her sister for her 8th birthday. All the drawings and collages where made by hand by herself. It looks much better in color.

At Last!

Somebody decided to stop compailing about how the media always potrays us in a negative light (terrorists and fanatics) and decided to do something positive and constructive at last.

I am talking about Zarqa Nawaz, the woman behind the new sitcom LITTLE MOSQUE ON THE PRAIRIE. A sitcom about a small muslim comunity in a small town somewhere in Canada.

Since we don't own a TV; I went to see the second episode at my parents house last night to see for my self what the fuss is about. I laughed several times and enjoyed watching the show. It was both funny and entertaining. Finally, muslims can create images where we represent ourselves in ways that are not racist or insulting.

Congratulation to Zarqa for being a doer instead of a complainer. I hope that LITTLE MOSQUE ON THE PRAIRIE become a huge success.

Below are a few clips from the first episode which I didn't see, but it will give you a feel of the show. The clips include commercials ... so you need to be patient as you watch.

Pictures of comet McNaught taken by my co-worker Doug Hayes yesterday just after sunset from the western side of the office where we work.

On a personal level, 2006 was a wonderful year were many happy events happened. I published my book, managed to improve my dancing skill, my family life is flourishing, I lost 8 kilograms and have been going to the gym an average of 5 times a week and my fitness level is the highest it has been ever. I enter 2007 with am immense feeling of joy and hope. I just know that 2007 will be an amazing year, I can feel it in my bones.

Every year for the past 4 years, I have resolved myself to do something challenging that I haven't done before that scares me. There was running, dancing, writing and publishing a book among my yearly challenges in the past. Each challenge has been a worth while exercise that brought me rewards I didn't even expect. For this year I haven't been able to settle on a challenge yet. I want to take my time to choose something that can top publishing a book, dancing flamenco and running a 10k race. Suggestions are welcome.

Below is a picture of my husband and I celebrating new year at a party in our house attended by close friends.

For our office Christmas party with the place where I work, I chreographed a little belly dancing routine which I then taught to some of my co-workers. And we performed it at the party for the rest of our co-workers. Keep in mind that most of the group has no dance background and we only had 6 sessions over 2 weeks to rehearse it.

Here is a short clip


I also performed a short flamenco routine on my own.

Lots of people sent me emails asking me "So how is the book doing?". I managed to sell a little over 150 copies so far. It might not sound as much but for an unknown name I think it is alright. I also managed to place the book in a few local bookstores. If you live in Vancouver you can now buy the book from the following book stores

Duthie Books on Fourth in Kitsilano
Fireside Books on Arbutas and Broadway
Peoples Co-op Bookstore on Commercial Dr.
Chapters Bookstore on Ackroyd Rd in Richport Town Center, near Westminister Hwy and Number 3 road

The thing that warms my heart though is that several people that baught the book and read it, came back and baught 2 and 3 more copies to give as presents to family. Now that is cool.

While I am busy promoting the book, I would like to take the time to acknowledge a few people that have encouraged me to write. I start with my friend Daryl.

Daryl lives in Philadelphia and works in New York. I met him during a work trip in the the US and despite our differences in opinion, he always encouraged me to write. Daryl is a conservative we therefore disagree on almost everything. But as soon as Daryl found my English blog, he insisted that I write my own book. I used to tell him that publishing a book takes a lot of time and effort and because I was too busy, I didn’t have the time for that. He would ask me about when he would read my new book every time he spoke to me to the extent that I started getting annoyed with his nagging. His words would ring in my ear "You have a unique voice that needs to be read", "Don't waste your writing talent" he would say to me. Those words made an impact. I await with anticipation Darly's feedback on the book as I am sure it will be honest, also I am certain that he disagrees with many parts of it. But until then "Thank you Daryl for your encouragement"

Whenever I tell people here in Vancouver that in the Middle East, men bellydance as well as women and in somecases even better, they always look at me in disblief.

Well here is a short clip that I have enjoyed watching very much and I hope you do too.



I think think guy is amazing.

I for one would like to devolve back into a monkey. Given how people have been behaving all over the world, the monkeys seem rather civilized. So I went and tried to join a monkey colony in Zimbabwe, I tried my best to fit in. But despite my best efforts to learn my ho ho ha ha and picking fleece off my brothers and sisters fur, the monkeys faced me with the hard truth and that is that I didn’t fit in. My monkey comrades were very gentle and sensitive in how they broke the news to me. They acknowledged my hard work and said they were impressed with how close I came to becoming one them. Several of the colony members told me that they never felt as close to human as they felt with me. However, a white woman hanging out with monkeys in Africa was causing both the media and the locals to notice the colony and the monkeys were afraid that soon the poachers would follow and that would be the end of their existence. But before we parted, the monkeys left with this single message to convey to the rest of the human race. "Please don't compare yourselves to the monkeys" they asked me to tell everybody. "It insults us when you call somebody a monkey, especially when most of you are not evolved enough for rudimentary basic existence of a monkey". I parted with the monkey colony with tears in my eyes, but then being determined tough Iraqi girl, I decide not to give up and I tried to join a donkey colony in Estonia instead. The donkeys didn't mind me hanging out with them but they were exhausted with my need to constantly express my feelings. It turns out the donkeys are practical animals and they waste no time on expressing things unless it pertains to their existence, like where to find food and how to procreate. So again very gently they asked to leave them and join another species more suitable to my obsessive desire to express myself. The chief donkey also asked me to tell the human race not to compare themselves to the donkeys since again most of us don't have what it takes to be a donkey. My attempts at joining a snake colony in Australia was short lived. The snakes mostly ignored me while I slithered around with them, but I found wiggling around on my tummy as my main form of movement unsuitable for my physical form.

As a child I always loved the show Tarzan, the man raised by monkeys that spends his days swinging from tree to tree, beating his chest and screaming his signature AhhhhAaaaaaahaaaaaahaaaaaaaaaahAAAAAAAA. However I learned that reality does not mimic the rosy American television shows. Maybe if I was raised by the monkeys from childhood things would have turned different. For better or worse I was raised by that mysterious group that is loosely called Humans. So I guess they are stuck with me and I am stuck with them.

My physiatrist says that I need to accept reality and come to terms with my human limitations. But I keep telling him that other people have managed to transform themselves to monsters, so why can't I be a monkey, is that so much to ask for. But those Canadian doctors just don't understand. They lack imagination and don't believe in miracles.

I miss the good old days, about two years ago. Every week we would phone family back in Baghdad and they would always complain about the electricity and water shortages. These days I dread the weekly phone call, because they stopped complaining. The electricity and water didn’t get better, but they just got used to it. Now they have much bigger things to worry about. They are afraid to go out of the house, they are afraid to stay in the house, they afraid for their lives everyday. The worse part is that they stopped complaining. There is just quiet desperation in their voices, they tell us without emotion about the people killed and places bombed and road blocks and other horrors, but they say it in a matter of fact, like it has become normal.

Recently, my husband became a big fan of the Indian movie director Deepa Mehta. Ok! try to forget everything you know about Indian movies, this is a serious movie director who makes movies about real life issues in India. Coincidently she has been living in Canada for the last 20 years. My husband keeps renting her movies which are very well made but painful to watch since they deal with real life issues and frequently don't have a happy ending. The most painful one was Earth. A movie about the breakup of Pakistan away from India. It focuses on a circle of friends, who are mixed (Muslim, Hindu, Sikh, and Parsi). In the course of the movie you see friends seeking each other's blood for revenge based on their race and not their individual actions. The few moderate ones who try hard to relate in human way and refuse to choose sides are labeled as traitors and end up paying the ultimate price.





I groaned in pain as I watched this movie. Mainly because I knew that I was watching the human dynamic of what is happening inside Iraq right now. I should take some comfort that we are not the only nation on earth to be facing this hardship, but still it is hard to bare.

So we all read about the study that estimates that the Iraqi death in the last three years is at 660,000. Some say that number is too high and others say it is too low. I don't know how accurate it is. What I do now is that every single day I hear on the news about more Iraqi people dieing, everyday there are bombs, deaths, assassinations and abductions. All I know from the contacts that I have with people inside Iraq that life has become hell and unbearable right now. So people are asking was the war worth it? Was it better than under Saddam or worse? It seems from people living inside Iraq that the situation today is worse, however it was pretty awful before as well. Compared to horrid situation in Iraq before it would have been so easy to create something at least marginally better, but only the geniuses at the white house could have messed thing up even worse than Saddam rule. The American administration and the American people must be held accountable for their own actions and their mistakes.

"I hated Iraqis" said American soldier, James Parker, when asked to explain why he raped a 14 year old Iraqi girl and killed her and her family while serving in Iraq.

"US out of Iraq" say the anti-war crowd. But not a single word about what would happen to the Iraqi population in the aftermath of complete troops withdrawal. Since non of the peaceniks are planning a move to Iraq, I suppose the consequences of what they advocate
on the local population doesn't matter as long as they prove that they were right and the US administration was wrong.

"We must stay the course in Iraq" is a frequent proclamation from the white house. Not a single acknowledgement that the "course" has been an absolute disaster creating the unimaginable "worse-that Saddam" life for the average Iraqi person actually living in
Iraq. I haven't heard a single word of accountability or a plan of some sort that would indicate that the people in the white house have the slightest concern of the daily loss of innocent Iraqi life.

Iraq is bleeding. A very rough ride is ahead of all those living in the country. Not a day goes by without news of deaths and atrocities. Left, right, democrats, republicans and psychopath American soldiers alike, nobody seems to consider the impact of their
actions on those living the reality. Is there a single person in the whole US that is willing to show leadership, leave ideology aside and put forwards a plan or a suggestion with the Iraqi citizen in mind?

However, let us not fool ourselves into this easy and comfortable US is the source of all evil. It is not the fault of the American army that Shea'a are killing Sunnis and Sunnis are killing Shea'a. At the end of the day it doesn't matter whose fault it is and trying to figure our what was better, before or after Saddam. Both are awful. Let us try to figure out what to do about it now. Here we are in this mess. The question we should be asking is "What can we do about it?". Is there any constructive action we can take as concerned citizens that does not entail loss of human life? If somebody has a suggestion, I would love to hear it.

From 786 to 1492, in Andalucía, Spain, there was a time when three cultures-- Islamic, Judaic and Christian--forged a relatively stable (though occasionally contentious) coexistence. Among the weeping fountains, breezy courtyards a long-running tolerance erupted profoundly rooted in the cultivation of the complexities, charms and challenges of contradictions. Through the interplay of all these cultures produced music so intensely beautiful that it takes my breath away and gives me goose bumps each time I hear it.

Flamenco.

We know it can be done, we know it can be achieved. This is not a dream but a reality.

Tolerence, Respect for human life, acceptance of the other
In our culture and history, been done once before, it can be done again.

We study how those managed to achieve it in Spain or we can study the behavior of the monkeys. Who resolve their conflicts in far more peaceful ways than we do.


One day the miracle will happen and we will no longer look at each other for terms to exclude each other from the tribe based on labels or characteristics. Ba'athist, Pro Occupation, Anti Freedom, Not a real Iraqi. But we will look at each other and see terms of inclusion.

Mokey wannabe ihath .... ho ho ho ha ha ha.

Once upon a time, not so long ago and not that far away, I had a blog that nobody read. It was just a private little blog where I poured my emotions into, bad spelling, nonsensical logic and disconnected thoughts were abound. I still remember the day I discovered that somebody linked to my blog. Oh! the excitement that I felt. The thought that somebody in a far away place read, understood and perhaps was even touched by something that I had written and felt it worthy to go through the trouble of placing a link to his blog. I was so happy, I felt validated, in-fact I liked the attention; I felt that I mattered somehow. It made me want to write more, put more juice into it, reach more people. There were more links, better links, more important links, even “oh my god” mentions in the press.
And then, and then and then everybody started to read my blog. And then people started to form opinions about my blog, some people even had several opinions about my blog, and then people would let me know what they thought of my blog.
There are those who are mad because I mentioned so and so in one of my posts and didn’t mention them. There are those who are mad because they got mentioned but not in the way that they want to be mentioned. There are those who start conversations with me by saying “this is not for your blog”. There are those who watch what they say around me because they know that I could blog about it and humiliate them in public.
Suddenly, it felt like it mattered what I thought, the way it never mattered before. Suddenly I had this power, a magical weapon, that I could unleash on a whim, I could intimidate people with. But with this power came restrictions.
My daugher’s teacher told me that she enjoys reading my blog. “Oh Nooooooooo!” I thought to myself when she said that. I now can’t write anything that might make me seem like a freak. I want my daughter’s teacher to think that we are “Normal”. I can’t write about the hysterical reaction I had when my husband decided to renovate the house.
My husband’s students at the university read my blog. Which means I can’t discuss anything too risqué, like sexuality, or funky behavior, because in academia my husband wants to look respectable.
I still remember the hysteria and panic I felt when a young man from my husband’s hometown of 20,000 sent me an email telling me how happy he was to find a blog mentioning this tiny little town outside of Nazareth. “Heavens help me”. I went through every single post I had ever written to make sure that I never mention my husband’s hometown or my in-laws in a negative manner. In a Palestinian village of 20,000 once one person gets a good piece of gossip in days everybody in the village is talking about it within the week. That day, as soon as I got home, I told my husband in the most dire tone of voice “I got an email from a man from your home town, his name is xxx, be prepared that your family might find out about my blog”. I spent many nights awake in bed thinking what my in-laws will say about the blog once they read it. They thought I was this nice sweet daughter in-law who always smiles and seems so positive.
Respectable, Normal, Sweet, my blog became after a while … and also boring. I looked though my last several posts and they are all so painfully dull. Where did the fire go, the honesty … all gone.

To blog or not not blog …. that is not my question. I feel pretty committed. To blog as if nobody reads my blog? That is the real question.

It aired morning of November 4th on a show named North By North West. You can here it here

Two weeks ago my mother dreamed that Saddam came into her living room and asked her to make him a cup of Turkish coffee. He looked tired and weary. He told her that he just wants to sit down and have some quiet for few minutes. "I just need to relax" Saddam told my mother in the dream. My mom looked around her kitchen in a frenzy, trying to think of what poison or chemical she could place in the coffee to kill the horrid creature that had entered her living room. Saddam looked straight into her eyes and told her "I know what you are thinking, but you should know that we will drink the coffee together". His voice sounded threatening but then it turned melancholy; with a deep sigh he continued "Anyway I don't have that long to live. I am afraid that my time is up, I just need to relax for a bit that is all and then I will leave." And so my mother decided to make him Turkish coffee without creative additions.

When Baghdad fell to the Americans I had a fantasy. It went something like this

Baghdad, 2010

Saddam Hussein is delivering morning newspapers in Al-Jumhriya district of Baghdad. He has chosen this job to avoid facing people. Very few people are out and about at 5:30 in the morning. There is too much angst directed at him, even though he is not the president anymore. There is a huge bronze statue of Saddam Hussein leftover from the old days. The statue is raising his hand looking sternly at the public. "What a hideous statue, I wish they would take it down already". Saddam thinks to himself. He touches the stack of newspapers in the heavy bag hanging off his shoulder. "I better get back to work. Plenty to do before breakfast".

Goodbye Iraq's butcher;
may you never grow in our dreams.
You were the farce that placed itself
where lives were torn apart.
You called out to our country,
and you tormented those already in pain.
Now you belong to hell,
and in shame we spell out your name.
And it seems to me you lived your life
like a candle in the wind:
fading with the sunset
when the rain set in.
And your footsteps we try to erase,
along Iraq’s bloody path;
your candle's burned out long before
your cowards ever will.
Greatness you've lost;
these empty days without your tyranny.
This torch we'll always carry
for our nation's golden child.
And even though we try,
the truth brings us to tears;
all our words cannot express
the nightmares you brought us through the years.
Goodbye Iraq's butcher,
from a country lost with or without you,
we won't miss your iron fist
not that you ever cared.

About a week ago, my father and I were waiting in line to attend a movie in the Vancouver International Film Festival. We were chatting in Arabic, when the man standing behind us asked us "Where are you guys from". Iraq! we answered in unison. The young man replied about how bad he feels about what is going on in Iraq and some other blah blah that most Canadians tend to say when they hear the word Iraq. My dad and I glanced at each other and thought "Here we go again .... yes yes, we feel bad about it too, we are sorry that mentioning our country of origin makes you feel sad". But the young man was polite and seemed eager to chat and so my dad and I were happy to engage him in a discussion. Pretty soon we started talking about Iraqi culture and geography. Then the young man asked "Can you give me the name of a famous Iraqi author?". I paused to think about all the Iraqi novels I have read attempting to pick a good recommendation for this young man, but my dad jumped in and said without hesitation "My daughter, right here" and he pointed a finger at me.

My face turned red, I started to shake my head in denial, "No no no". The young man's eyes widened and he asked in excitement "Are you an author?". "Errrrr, well!, not really, errrr, I have a book coming out in a couple of weeks".

It was the first time that I came close to calling myself an author. Thank you dad for outing me like this. Ok I do have a book, here it is:

For three years I have been walking around with this secret inside my head. More like a wish or a dream. Very few people knew about my little secret and I kept it mostly to myself. This thing grew and mutated and changed and then it turned into reality that is ready to come out into the world.

I can't describe the emotions that I feel right now. The closest I can describe it is that I feel like I had just given birth to a baby. At times I feel moments of intense joy, "Oh! my god! this is really happening", I say to myself. Other times I feel intense fear and anxiety, "Oh my god! people will read it, what if it is a miserable failure, what if it is a success, both options terrify me". It reminds of the hormonal phase following a birth. Sometimes I laugh for no reason, other times I cry for no reason. I am walking around with a feeling of emptiness.

Hello World! I don't know if I am ready for this, but I present to you my baby, he is orange, kinda cute and very innocent. I present to you

Don't Shoot! ... I have anothe