ihath

“You have been neglecting your English writing for sake of your Arabic Writing. You are just churning out one article after the other on your Arabic blog and producing nothing but weak posts on the English side, that is when you write anything at all. Now writing in Arabic is swell but you should not allow that to effect your English writing. You have developed your own style and voice in English, you Arabic writing is improving over time but it is still not all there, it is not up to same level as your English writing. Anyway!......most internet readers speak English so you reach a wider audience that way” – said my father over the weekend. He was berating me for neglecting my English blog.

This is the same man who years ago told me that if I mixed English words into Arabic while I spoke to him that he would rather I didn’t speak to him at all.

I told my dad that I received critical comments from a young man named Mohammed from Egypt and that after a long email back and forth that he convinced me to write in Arabic. I explained all the reasons that I felt writing in Arabic mattered. How we need to engage in a dialog among ourselves and not just with the west. How as a result of me living in Canada it gives me the freedom of saying whatever I like without fear of prosecution. How there are thousands and thousands of Iranian bloggers and most of them write in Persian. How it make me feel jealous to see Iranians being so proud of their own language, while we Arabs blog mostly in English.

“With all respect to this Mohammed….I am not saying don’t write in Arabic…..I am telling you not to stop writing in English”---was my dad’s final answer.

I am 35 years old and I am still trying to impress my dad…..I wonder what that says about me?

Alright, dadio! this one is for you.
…..

The men where crying like little babies, hitting themselves with grieve, they looked distorted, confused, completely defeated. You could feel the distress in the air

The year was 1967, and my father was in the Czech republic taking a language class as part of his graduate studies. He was studying along with a group of other Arab students. When Egyptian president Jamal Abed Al Nasser announced the loss of the Six Days War to Israel, the Egyptian students became so grieve stricken that my father worried they would have nervous break downs. The other Arab students were also depressed but the Egyptian young men took it the hardest. That moment is frozen in my dad’s memory because he has described it to me many times. The moment of defeat, the loss of a dream.

But, it was the era of broken dreams, and loss of the six days war was only one of many.

My dad in his youth had many sweet dreams.

The son of a wealthy merchant in city of Al-Shamiya, south of Iraq, he dreamed of a new Iraq, a better Iraq, an Iraq that was completely different from the Iraq he grew up in. He dreamed of an Iraq were everybody would be equal and have the same rights. He dreamed of an Iraq were nobody went hungry and nobody was poor. He dreamed of an Iraq free of British occupation and free of the client regime left behind by them. He dreamed of a country where everybody could express themselves freely and without fear for their life. Dreams of pride, victory, Arab nationalism, Arab unity, progress, modernity and better life. Dreams of rebuilding the whole country.

And so…….he joined the Iraqi Communist Party against the expressed wishes of his father. The communist party was going to achieve all these dreams.

Did you ever notice how all the leaders of communism come from a privileged backgrounds? Carl Marx, Lenin, Fidel Castro yet they claim to be fighting for the rights of poor and hard working. My theory is that all these overeducated, privileged young men became communists in order to rebel against their fathers. … just a silly theory….don’t take me too seriously.

When the forces of darkness reined in Iraq and those that objected got killed, arrest orders were issued for my father. Hiding in the apartment of a friend, the police came to arrest him anyway, somebody must have spotted him and informed on him. As he was being arrested, he remembered comrades that were arrested like him only to show up dead with holes and burn marks few weeks later.

“I have no idea where the courage or the idea came from, but I decided to give it a try” – my dad told me. While he was being driven in a jeep to his dark fate, he decided to try to b.s. his way out of it.
“Do you know who I am?” – He told the arresting officers.
“You are making a huge mistake, I am a high officer in the army, all of you are in big trouble as soon as this mishap is cleared up, I will have all of you arrested and punished”- he belted at them in confidence.
The arresting officers looked worried, somehow this display of haughtiness was convincing, they decided to let him go and come back after verifying that they had the right man. My dad was long gone when they came back the second time.

After that he went hiding in the basement of an abandoned house, his first brush with death convinced him he should never be seen in public and so he never left the room for months, eating nothing but canned food the whole time. Going out to buy fresh fruits and vegetable seemed too risky. Till this day my dad can’t stand canned sardines because it was his main stable for months during that period.

Later he arranged for a fake passport and used it to get out of the country. He simply walked in confidence into the airport hoping he wouldn't be discovered. “I was shitting in my pants, knowing that if I am discovered I would be dead, but pretending to be walking in all confidence”, my dad told me about his unusual exit of his country.

And so the son of the wealthy merchant would arrive in Kuwait penniless, without papers, without ID, without a way to prove his education, the one who wanted to defend the poor and the hard working would soon join them. It was the first time in his life that he would experience hunger and poverty but not for long. Soon the party would arrange for him to study in the Czech republic.

In the Czech republic he would experience an even bigger heart break. Seeing the corruption rampant in the socialist country, he soon started to doubt his ideals. He wasn’t sure anymore if this was something that was worth risking his life over. It all seemed very different in his dreams than the actual application he witnessed. "But some are more equal than others" didn't have the same ring to it.

Here he was, depressed, away from his county, exiled from a country that wants to kill him, his beliefs shaken, no longer sure what he believed in, all his sweet dreams broken, drifting through life, nearly broke, no job, doing a degree he didn’t care about, Life seemed very very dark indeed.

And so………….He got married and had two kids.

In my childhood, I was discouraged from having dreams about rebuilding countries.

Such dreams can be a serious risk to your life.
--------

Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused

Sweet dreams are made of this
Who am I to disagree?
Travel the world and the seven seas
Everybody's looking for something
Some of them want to use you
Some of them want to get used by you
Some of them want to abuse you
Some of them want to be abused

I wanna use you and abuse you
I wanna know what's inside you(Whispering)

Hold your head up, movin' on
Keep your head up, movin' on
Hold your head up, movin' on
Keep your head up, movin' on
Hold your head up, movin' on
Keep your head up, movin' on
Movin' on!

There is a way between voice and presence where information flows. In disciplined silence it opens. With wandering talk it closes. .... Rumi