Goodbye Whitney Houston: The Day The Music Died

I spent hours crying this morning after I heard the news.

"Goodbye...goodbye Whitney Houston!" I said, sobbing in my parked car. Now, let me make it clear that I am no 'fan girl' and not that easily moved by news of the demise of the rich and famous celebrities. I did not cry when Michael Jackson died, nor did I stop and ponder upon his addiction, his tragedy or his death. But, Whitney? Whitney is a whole different ballgame.

Whitney Houston- May She Rest in Peace

I grew up listening to Whitney, like I had been listening to Michael. But Whitney was the epitome of strength. Whitney was the woman I wanted to grow up to become. Whitney was beauty and elegance. Whitney was romance and the love I wished to have. Whitney was an embodiment of talent I could only dream of having. Whitney sang the soundtrack to my first love story. Whitney's voice carried me through and through, times and times again.  Whitney wasn't just a celebrity to me, fallible and flawed. Whitney was "every woman." She embodied everything a woman should be. Everything I ever wanted to be.

And herein lies the tragedy. I thought that Whitney, being accomplished, successful and beautiful and all, was happy. To find out that she was on drug was the ultimate shock to me, like a child thinking their parent had it all together only to find out that this is far from true. And to find out that she died, I was crushed with sadness. This came at a time where I was weighed down with dreary philosophical wonderings of the soul, and revisited existential  dilemmas; the sort of thing that can happen often with many dead and dying all around me on the streets of Cairo.

Then, her sweet voice came back to me. "If I should die this very day, don't cry because on this earth we weren't meant to stay." And I cried some more.

This is precisely our conundrum, we aren't staying. None of us are. But we all act like we are, and because of that, the void consumes us all. We think that if  only we were prettier, if only were thinner, if only we had more money or fame or lovers, we would finally be happy...finally be free.

But the sad truth of it is—none of it matters. 

So many people had it all, and yet had nothing. We keep seeing that time and time again, but are we ready to wake up?

Maybe we should be less concerned with how much we have and how good we look and even how happy we are because , indeed, "on Earth we weren't meant to stay."  And our end may be sooner than we think. After all, she was only 48.

Whitney you will be missed, and you will sure never be forgotten. Between "I wanna dance with somebody" and "My love is Your Love", Whitney, you were indeed every woman.

May you rest in peace.

Just Out "Egypt: Rise of the Resistance"

I was racing through to make the second installment in The Battle for Maat available before Jan25th, 2012.

If you are not in Egypt,  you may wonder why.

I will tell you...It's because the aborted Egyptian revolution is planning a comeback on its one year anniversary.  For all news and details follow hashtag #Jan25 on twitter.

Do you think it befitting that the book is titled Rise of the Resistance?

Well, let me tell you. It is no coincidence ;-)

This book will witness the birth of the true organized resistance movement...the "Resistance."

Follow in Aya' s footsteps and she will lead the way.
She will take you on a little journey away from the harshness of the mundane and into a world where the impossible is just one step . Follow her and she may enthrall you with bewitching tales as old as time...

You can download a copy from Smashwords HERE
Or if you prefer to cuddle up with a real book order it HERE 

Our Martyrs... Our Heroes

This post is translated from Arabic. You can find the original Here  in the  words of blogger extraordinaire and activist Mona Seif

The Adel Imam You Should Know 

I met him at the doors of Zeinhom morgue, home to the bodies of all our fallen heroes. 

All he wanted was to take his son's body to Tahrir Square.  

To honor him with a funeral march and prayer in the Square that bore witness to his son's final hours and demise at the hands of the Ministry of Interior and Army goons.

We started to spread the word and rally for a march. The local crowd, however, advised the father against it, and so he left, along with the boy's mother.

But our paths were destined to cross again,  on the following Friday. The one we designated " Martyrs Friday."  

This time it was at the entrance of the  notorious Mohamed Mahmoud Street, home to the Egyptian Ministry of Interior,  where hundreds were injured and many lost their live ­—and most important where Adel's young life was snatched away from him.

We stood there staring at the list of Martyrs.

Hesitantly, he asked, "Is Adel's name on there somewhere?"

Confidently, I answered, "Of course it is." Then I started to scan for his name—Adel Imam.

"Here it! Here it is!" I pointed at the name excited. "Right up there, on the left."

He stared at the name and called out to his wife, Om Adel, " Adel's name is on the list...here it is!" He said sobbing.

Adel's father only wanted recognition. He sought no compensation, no vain words,. His parents only wanted Adel be recognized as the hero and the martyr that he is. Instead, what they got is the constant denial of police authorities that live bullets were used. But they knew better. They saw the hole in their son's head with their own two eyes. 

The real story behind Adel Imam's death is a story we will not be hearing any time soon. We will not be hearing the truth as long we have notorious officials who dare stare at the bullet-laden bodies of the fallen and claim that no bullets were fired. As long as Egyptian national media only cares about the better-looking bourgeois of the revolutionary lot. A long as the international media insists on reducing the Egyptian revolution to social media and  As long as the media is obsessing over Islamophobia and ignoring anything else. 

We will never be reading  this story—the true story of Adel Imam —anywhere:

Adel Imam , a young manual worker, who went to Tahrir demonstrations behind his parents' back.
Adel Imam is a martyr who was murdered in cold bold on February 21st.
Adel Imam was killed with a bullet in his head, and a receipt in his pocket—a receipt for the medical supplies he bought, with the pennies he makes, for the Tahrir field hospital.

It thus remains our responsibility to spread the word and tell their stories. Tell their stories to our friends, our families, our children. Etch them in our memory so that we may never forget.

It is our responsibility to document the true history of our revolution. It is our responsibility to sing the names of the fallen heroes and hang their pictures everywhere...until one day we overcome,  or become one of these untold stories waiting to be sung.

The Adel Imam who doesnt matter

For those who ask when will the Egyptian revolution be complete, I answer: when "Adel Imam" becomes a name synonymous with this young hero and not a proregime hateful actor. 

Please pray for our unsung heroes... our martyrs.

Remember Remember the Dead and dismembered

Dear Justice, 


I am writing to you today because I have been told that you are blind--and so I am helping you see. 


I understand it is easy to overlook the weak and to further forget the forgotten because, well, they neither bark nor bite. 


But to continue  ignoring blindly those in need --Lady justice, that is just too cruel...even for you. 


Sometimes I fear that you. Lady justice, do not like freedom. Not only do you take it away from those you deem  'wrong-doers,' but also you do not extend you grace to those who fight for it. 
Do you not think that freedom fighters deserve to be avenged and defended and taken care of?

Photo Credit: Hossam Haplas Facebook Account.

Maybe you do...but you are just too blind to see. So I bring to your attention Randa, a young nurse who was beaten into paralysis by the goons of a dictator and mistreated in the hospitals of his successor. 


Randa was tending the wounded on a fateful night in Tahrir square, oblivious to the fact that she will never walk again. She sutured a wound and for that a policeman decided to give her a beating that will alter her life for ever. 


February 2nd was the last day Randa walked on her own two feet. With a shattered spinal cord and an old rusty wheel chair, Randa suffers from medical neglect and psychological abuse at the hands of the staff of the rehabilitation center. 


Do you think she deserves that Lady justice? 
Do you think fallen heroes and those who lost the normalcy of their lives deserve no swift retribution?


I know you don't. I am sure you don't. 


So please Lady justice, I beg of you, please do something--or we will all be doomed. 




Sincerely,
A troubled human. 

Beware the Flogging You Driving Woman!

Lest you thought erroneously that the dark ages are a thing of the past, please be informed that just yesterday a woman was sentenced to ten whiplashes  because *drum roll* she was caught driving a car!

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I kid you not. And this of course takes place in none other than the backward-minded "Kingdom."

I hate to refer to that country, where beloved Mecca and Medina lie, as the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia because, like my very wise grandmother always said, no country should be name after its rulers.

How can women still face such cruel and demeaning corporeal punishment in the year 2011--and by order of a judge? What is wrong with the world?

And before you jump to conclusions about extremists and Islamic Sharia law, let me tell you that Saudi king and royalty are not as pious as they would like us to believe. They, and their beloved/favored ones, are out of the reach of said Sharia law. They do whatever the hell pleases them and in many instances have to travel far and wide to enjoy freedom.

So again the case of the Kingdom is merely a case of chauvinist pigs used religion to exercise their misogyny. It's an age old trick.  Watch the locked up housewives of Venice in the movie Dangerous Beauty do they remind you of someone?

Women of the Kingdom, fear not. You will see the light of freedom, soon I hope--in our lifetime. 

Disillusionement and the Arab Spring

One of  most interesting Arab intellectuals on the blogging scene, Rami Zurayk, Professor of Ecosystem Management in the American University of Beirut, wrote a  piece on why he is not disillusioned with the Arab spring.


Now, it is only natural that I find his post intriguing. After all, disillusionment was one of  my most common states of mind--guess the hapless romantics all know what I am talking about.


There comes the time when you realize that there is no place for disillusionment, because all your worst fears are true. Utopia is truly nowhere, and happinness is more fleeting that a cigarette's wick.


This was precisely where I stood right before the Arab spring worked its magic on me. 


But then, like spring always does, the Arab spring gave way to a cruel and harsh summer--with bodies all over the place and hope no where in sight.


Zurayk argues that disillusionment is a natural state of affairs that one should embrace, as a part of the circle of life, rather than worry about it. He also firmly asserts that disillusioned with the Arab spring he is not and will never be. Why? because the Arab spring has remolded our societies perceptions and ended the infamous acquiescence of Arab people for all time. 


You cannot really argue with that. But the way I see it, oil monarchies are poison to the Arab's freedom springs. Rich corrupt kings do not freedom for their people--or their people's neighbors. They would like to see the dictator-free countries in a perpetuel state of chaos. So that they serve as cautionary tales for the people of the gulf--lest they dare seek freedom for themselves.  


This brings me back to the question: are YOU disillusioned with the Arab spring? Or do you see a dim light at the far end of the tunnel?

On Hope and Being Young

I found a quotations notebook from my teenage years the other day.

It started off  with stanza One of  Emily Dicknison's

 "Hope is the thing with feathers.

 That perches in the soul.

 And sings a tune-- without the words
 And never stops at all."

It was written up in beautiful colors with an elegant hand writing complete with decorative motifs and small happy scribbles. 

The notebook's was full of quotations, some attributed some not. I flipped through it without much attention--until I found that final page. 

I had not remembered collecting these quotes or making that notebook at all. But from the choice of first quote I had assumed that it was a happy teenage girl's little book--a guide to life, or something of the sort. 

Until I came across the last page.
The page held the last quote: 

"Contentement is when you finally realize that life is a gift, not a right." with a small circular drawing beside it, labeled "Vicious Circle of Wants and Needs."  The circle, scribbled in fading pencil strokes, showed how the "quest for happiness" leads to "unfullfillment" which, naturally, leads right back up to the "quest for happiness."

Then, a sad question a few lines down: "How can I break free?"

The answer was shocking: " God," circled in red.

I must have been fourteen or fifteen when I wrote the first quote. But I remember nothing of the circumstances of writing this one last page.  That page was not just a pious girl's quest for Nirvana, or a plan to relinquish material life. This is was the beginning of what was to be many years of learned helplessness.

I wonder who taught this young intelligent human being full of potential that she has to "stop wanting." Who taught her that happiness is bad? Why did she think that there was no use trying?

What happened between the first and the last pages, you may wonder. Well, the patriarchal misogynist Powers That Be had finally gotten the best of me. A very long story that I am sure I am going to tell someday, or even put it in a book. For many years I battled with this there-is-no-use mentality. Sometimes I won, but most of the time the Powers That Be had something entirely different in mind.

How did that story end? Well, I ultimately came out victorious! The Powers That Be are no longer in charge. I'm in charge!

But somewhere deep inside still lies that sad scared little girl. Is this why I was drawn to writing YA fiction about a girl who thought of herself no good but turned out to hold all the power? Perhaps. But maybe I also wrote it for my daughter, to tell her of all the things that she can be and all the things that she can do--if she chooses to.

The operative term here is "if she chooses to." This is a theme I will come back to time and time again in the Battle for Maat. Aya is not just someone who is fated by blood and heritage for greatness, she had to choose to be great. She will even defy common sense on many occasions because she wants to do what she feels is right and wants to find her own way.

"We are who we choose to be." The blind Seer tells Aya in the beginning of her journey. I believe in that wholeheartedly. Don't you?