A Strong Rebirth

This short story got published in an anthology called "Soul Survivors: From Trauma to Triumph" - 2016. 

Every hairdresser who ever washed and blow-dried my hair felt the bump on my head, which was fortunately veiled beneath my dark strands. “An accident?” they would often question, for it was too intriguing for them to ignore its cause and thus my story commenced.

The car I was riding spun in the air, rotating several times before it pounded the ground. What was meant to be a blissful holiday spent in the farm resulted in my nanny’s death — she jumped out of the car — my father’s coma, my head being cut open, and breaking a limb. I was a toddler, but I still remember the incidents that followed vaguely. “How old were you?” the hairdressers from the diverse salons persisted.

“Not more than three.” At such a young age, what we actually remember is often painted with scenes described by other people — in this case, family members. My sister who is two years my senior, for example, often recounted the sounds of the sirens approaching before the ambulance whisked us to the hospital. She also remembered the fierce red between her fingers as she realized that blood coated them like a sticky cobweb. My aunt reminisced of a relative covering my nanny’s corpse with his white turban. I could not recall these disturbing imageries, since my injuries and that of Dad have surpassed that of the remaining passengers. He fell into a coma, while I was blanked out.

My mother told me years later, “You were lucky. The accident occurred during the Kuwait and Iraq war, so a skilled doctor from America was around to stitch the open wound on your head.”

I smiled at her. My strong mother always managed to grasp the remnants of hope that shone brightly at the end of a tunnel with both hands. It was a trait I proudly inherited from her and compensated us both for our poor sense of direction. She was behind the wheels during that dreadful accident and my father was right beside her.

What I actually could still recall was Dad sleeping on a hospital bed in Germany. My sister and I spent hours customizing the ‘Get Well Soon’ cards he received during our visits. A classical piano occupied the vast living room in our accommodation. I sported a pink raincoat with two large pockets, each one portraying a picture of Precious Moments’ caricatures, whilst my sister was shielded beneath a shiny red raincoat from the heavy rain. When my father could finally walk again, he would take us out for strolls, while we wrapped our small hands around his large thumb. I felt that Germany’s relentless winds swore to make me soar along with my umbrella, no matter how firmly I held its latch. Hence my young mind could recollect the events that progressed through the trauma, which was mostly during the therapeutic stage, as opposed to the actual accident.

As I grew older, I became much more aware of my mother’s strength. She was in her early twenties, and had to witness her family’s anguish quietly, harboring the guilt even if it was never her fault. Her beloved husband slept with broken limbs on a bed, whilst she pleaded God to spare his life. Her children who did not yet surpass the age of five had to endure the aftermath of a car crash at such a young age. It was like riding a rollercoaster that collapsed. The childish songs we chanted in the car on our way to the farm were hastily replaced with screams. She had also lost our nanny for good. No matter how much I tried to liberate her confounded shock and pain through my words, I know now I would never be able to bring her feelings justice. Although the price my mother paid was high, for she never rode a vehicle again, she still held her family firmly. Not once did I remember tears gleaming from her pretty face and despite the turmoil, I only recall us laughing by Dad’s bedside, our art that embellished the hospital’s wall, our failed attempts at weaving a classical piano song and our walks together.

As an intense child, awful memories resided in my mind, no matter how hard I tried to shut them out. Friends and relatives often expressed their surprise whenever I detailed incidents that have occurred years ago. Therefore, I was certain that my strong, yet sensitive mother managed to conceal in front of us how broken she actually felt after the car crash. As a mother of four myself, and older than Mom at that time, I knew I would never have been able to cope the way she did. My silent tears would have constantly drenched my face, causing my children to panic. Sometimes dreadful accidents occur to demonstrate the true colors of those around us and I believe that my mother would never forget the people who did not point blaming fingers at her and supported her during her fall. It also solidified the bond between her and Dad. We were fortunate to have escaped death, for it was not yet our time and more blessed to have Mom as our mother.

Blessings in Disguise

This short story got published in an anthology called "Soul Survivors: From Trauma to Triumph" - 2016.

The man with the gun was in my bedroom. He came to find me. In the name of mercy, I screamed at him to pull the trigger - to execute my excruciating pain. My abdomen was a scabbard - the home of blades that pierced within me. The man with the bullet was my escape, my relief. He visited my mind when I was completely bent to one side of the bed - the comfortable spot usually in the fetal position - where the pain softens for a mild moment. I did not dare to move.

Migraine vigorously pounded my head. Diarrhea, nausea, fever, and cramps were some of the symptoms I endured. Sometimes the pangs of pain slept idly like a dormant volcano and other times they erupted capriciously. I never thought it was serious. My condition was alien to me and my parents. I blamed it on stress and depression. Naturally, the torture progressed until it exploded on my fragile body like cluster of paint splashed on white canvas. I could no longer hide my distress beneath strong smiles. Spasms of pain punctured my bones. For the first time, I was immobile. I could neither bath, nor change my cloths. I also had trouble swallowing water and food, but the worst part was digesting the truth: I was really ill. I was frustrated that I was losing my independence. Tears welled from my eyes, yet not a sob could be heard. At the age of nineteen, my patience was wearing thin. My parents finally booked a flight to Switzerland. We would seek medical aid from a doctor they trusted and discover what was wrong with me.

We reached Switzerland in a chilled November afternoon. The weather seemed understanding of my situation, as torrential rain accommodated my mood quite agreeably. At night, I tossed and turned on my bed. The nurses with their vampire needles terrified sleep away.

The next day, the nurse gently pricked my goose flesh for blood tests. As I closed my eyes in terror, I noticed that the pain endured was minuscule compared to my huge fear of needles. The doctor called at night and told us I had a virus and an inflammation in my stomach. At least I learned that I did not hallucinate my suffering. It actually had a name!

My weak state compelled me to enroll in a Distance Learning Law Program in Nottingham University. Although I missed university life so much, deep down I knew that I was fortunate to learn from home - even if I had to teach myself. I never expected I would miss all the simple things in attending a university the most: strolling to campus, staring out the windows in class, drawing swirls on the margins of my notebook, writing notes till my pen dries out and making new friends every day. It was a shame that I did not value the little things in life until I lost them, but it was no time to count my losses. I had to look at my blessings in the eye and fight for them. It was my only hope to succeed - even if they were blessings in disguise. I felt like they were playing hide-and-seek with me. I was determined to win by seeking each one of them, highlight their significance, and the impact they imprinted on me. They would aid me in weaker times. We would combat future storms together.

With every test tube filled, my fear of needles slowly diminished. The tests confirmed that my hemoglobin was below average. Not only were my emotions suffocated, but also oxygen in my blood aspired to breathe. My soul shriveled with anxiety. I filled the gaps of fear from the unknown with writing - my escape route. Notes on my diary - the friend that never left me - reminded me consistently to stay strong, accept myself, and smile.

At last, I met the specialist - my doctor. He was still uncertain about the type of disease I carried. Further tests and scans would determine the result. I was obliged to drink two liters of the most acrid and bile solution ever. Its pungent odor enveloped my nose. The lemon - my father squeezed inside the mixture - did not make it better. I spent the whole night and morning vomiting.

In the clinic, the specialist performed an ‘endoscopy.’ He injected deep inside my vein and attached an antiseptic tape to sedate the pain. Camera wires were attached inside my body to scan my colon and terminal ileum. I rested on the bed, cold and exposed. My eyes rained teardrops. My doctor wiped the trails away. “I understand,” he told me - fighting his own tears - "you're ashamed. It's fine. You're not alone.” This stranger of a doctor felt my real sorrows. He understood the significance of moral therapy before physical treatment – a crucial point which a lot of doctors from diverse nations neglected. Then, I underwent a ‘biopsy.’ The gastroenterologist took samples of the scattered, spotty patches of inflammation for laboratory analysis.

The specialist told me that inflammation colonized my colon and the border of my intestine. I was finally diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. Being told I had a disease that caused great pain was bad enough, but it was something else entirely to be told that it had no cure and I should be under medication for the rest of my life. With the scissors of optimism, I decided to cut the strings of anxiety and stress. In my mind, Crohn’s disease was reduced to a stilled puppet, lurking around lifeless. I learned to deal with pressure without internalizing it, so it wouldn’t consume me. I became more compassionate and understanding of people’s shortcomings, since exhaustion completely drained my energy. I began to look forward to my doctor appointments with my father always by my side. The pinkish-purple souvenir on my arm - courtesy of the needles - was mere proof of the good times my dad and I spent together.

I secretly feared that I might not be able to get pregnant in future or if I was blessed with children, I would not have the energy to care for them. After two years, my fear was kept at rest. I got married and pregnant. In my sixth month, I was mistakenly admitted to the hospital for labor, since Crohn’s disease crippling pain greatly resembled contractions. I witnessed a flare-up, because I failed to take my pills. Since then, I promised myself to take my medicine, no matter how much I grew sick of them. With the help of God, family, friends, and medicine, I was battling my disease victoriously. At least it was great practice for giving birth with no epidural or drug to tranquilize the pain. I was reticent through the whole labor experience. It made my gynecologist see girls from the new generation - my generation - in a new light. 

Some people chose to dwell on their sufferings and all the miseries a disease entailed. I chose to appreciate all the qualities I acquired after I was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. I was no longer frightened of needles, my writing improved and was very therapeutic, as it provided me with the perfect outlet to unleash any negative energy on paper, and I became more sympathetic and closer to family and friends, especially my father. But most importantly, all the suffering ignited my soul with hope. I looked at my disease as a windowpane in a winter morning - snow filtering the glass from flaws, blemishes, and scars of the years. I felt purified - closer to God than ever before. Before my son turns six, I held three more children in my arms. I no longer felt incapable to raise them.

The man with the gun had waved his final goodbye. I got my miracle.

Still With Me

This short story got published in an anthology called "Miracles & Extraordinary Blessings" - 2014. 

It was quite ironic that my husband, sisters, and I were watching a comedy when the phone rang. My husband’s cheerful face suddenly turned pale after he answered my dad’s call. “What’s wrong?”  I asked. 

“Nothing.”  My husband disguised a cool and composed look in front of me.  He became awfully quiet then rushed to the bathroom for several minutes.  I had a nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong. 

I was nine months pregnant with my first child.  Besides the agony of riding a rollercoaster of temperamental pregnancy hormones that took me by surprise, it did not help that I was the only one clueless.  My family remained tongue-tied.  They feared depression would induce my labor, but they merely fed the holes of anxiety in my heart with confusion and alienation. 

After constant begging, my sister finally broke the news to me: Aunt Foziya passed away.  I bathed several times during the day letting the water in the shower muffled my cries.  No wonder my husband kept disappearing in the bathroom while we were happily watching comedy.  With great struggle, he was freeing the sickening feelings - he skillfully wore in front of us. 

Only a week earlier, my dear aunt sat next to me on the blue sofa in my home and said, “I hope you give birth today.”  I was frightened by her comment since I was not due yet.  I later understood that she was destined to utter these words.  She would never see my child after all.  The last present she bought was a beautiful gold bracelet with black precious stones for my unborn son.  It was believed to protect infants from envious eyes. 

Aunt Foziya was a strong and beautiful lady.  She suffered from asthma for most of her life.  Even with her deteriorating condition, she was more than capable of managing all the affairs of her home and school - she was a school director. Unfortunately, the cortisone her doctors prescribed gradually doubled and tripled her weight, leading to a series of other illnesses.  She tediously climbed the summit of Mount Everest every time she breathed and moved.  It broke our hearts to watch her suffer.

My beloved aunt never married nor had any children.  She considered me her daughter.  When I was a child, she was the only grownup who allowed me to teach her a foreign language.  She even patiently answered the tests I created for her.  She once looked at me with eyes full of sympathy and said, “You’re sensitive just like me. Balance your vulnerability to protect yourself.” She managed her sensitivity quite well by laughing at herself and spreading soothing and contagious smiles to our hearts.  When my sister remarked about herself that she was old, my aunt replied, “If you’re old, then I belong in a museum.”   

The smoky, enticing aroma of green lentils, pasta, rice, caramelized onions and tomato topping, danced around my aunt’s home whenever she anticipated my visit.  My favorite Egyptian dish ― Kushari ― along with a Singaporean vegetable noodles ― awaited me.  My seat was always reserved next to her on the sofa.  After I got married, my husband and I visited her more frequently.  I bought her a huge box as a surprise and filled it with religious CDs, inspirational novels, designer perfumes, and dates.  I wrote her a letter ― my first attempt to share my writing with family.  She cried happy tears.  I told her we should meet weekly to discuss the novels and listen to the stories and songs in the CDs.  Unfortunately I was bedbound, as my pregnancy took a toll on me.  The regular visits never occurred.

In my religion, seeing the dead in dreams was considered real divine dreams ― a blessing from God. This explained my excitement when I dreamt my sweet aunt as a little child falling down, shortly after her death.  Mom said, “To God she was an innocent child and this was exactly how she died, tumbling like a child.” 

My dear aunt visited me again after I gave birth in hospital. I dreamt her grave was ajar and her eyes were wide opened.  I screamed in horror, as it dawned on me that she was really gone. When I woke up, I was washed with light relief. God understood how miserable I felt. He brought her to me and showed her my baby. She saw my son after all.  

I began to look forward for her “visits.” The miraculous messages she brought me from heaven became more constant in times of trouble and dire need. God sent her to me in my sleep. Even after death, she was still alive within me and aware of all the difficulties that surpassed me.

I could never forget the time I spent the whole day getting rid of my things. These tangible objects held many painful memories. I decided to give them away to charity instead of trapping them in cupboards and drawers. It was a painful task since I had a bad habit of attaching myself to the past. Though not ideal, it made me feel secure. Some time had passed since I had seen her in my dreams. I prayed to God to make me stronger and pleaded with him to let me see my aunt once again in my dreams. I also whispered conversations to my aunt in the process. I told her how much I loved and missed her. 

The next morning, my sister called me. She said, “I dreamt Aunt Foziya said that you were asking God to see her and then you sat with her in her living room and had a private conversation.” 

Tears formed puddles on my cheeks and drenched my dress. My prayer was granted. God’s mercy engulfed me at every twist and turn in my life. Sunshine beamed at me in the form of my beloved aunt. She cleared the fog of ambiguity from the mirror of my days by illuminating my path.  She was still with me through my sister’s dream. 

 I gave birth to my daughter before my son turned two. My husband and I were delighted. We could finally name her Foz ― short for Foziya. Whenever I called my daughter’s name, I felt my aunt’s presence. 

 While I was pregnant with my second daughter, my friend asked me, “Why don’t you name her Fay? You already have Foz.  Both names would be cute together.”  I considered the name, but I was still in doubt. My mom told her sister that I was thinking of calling my daughter Fay. To my surprise, my aunt dreamt her sister, Aunt Foziya, asked why I was hesitant. In Arabic, Fay meant shade; a word that symbolized what she provided for us when she was alive – she was the shade of our family.  The answer was in my tears. I decided to name my second daughter Fay. I was truly blessed that all my children carried a piece of my dear aunt with them.  My son wore her bracelet and my daughters shared her name. 

When I catch a glimpse of the comedy I watched the night she died, a melancholic cloud wraps itself around me, but soon it condenses into sweet raindrops, showering me with blessings. The comedy reminds me of her sense of humor, which paints the brightest smiles on my face.  Her lively “visits” made her play a significant and endless role in my life. My aunt was with me all along. She never left. 

About A Smile

 My first writing that got published in an anthology :) 

Genre: non-fiction

Theme: children

Eight years ago, I went to Mali on a humanitarian trip organized by my school, ‘Institut Le Rosey.’ My diary was lost somewhere in my old classroom to gather dust, and the pictures I took from my disposable camera were never returned to me. But what I retained, even with these unfortunate circumstances, is far greater than any recorded writing or an album filled with snapshots. The experience completely took me by surprise and changed my whole perspective on life. There is no wonder why, years later, even as a mother of two children, I still persistently urge my family to travel to Mali, although I know the answer will always be ‘no.’
                I remember how fortunate I felt to have the opportunity to go to Mali and teach their children English in a developing school called ‘Le Rosey –Abantara’ in Bamako, the bustling capital city of Mali. The vaccination they gave me to prevent yellow fever seemed like a tiny compromise despite my huge fear of needles. My disgust towards insects appeared insignificant. I fell in love with the greater cause, my mission. It was a dream of mine to teach children and who better than thirsty pupils in dire need of education? Little did I know that I was going to be their student, since the children of Mali provided me unintentionally with the greatest lessons possible― the lessons of life.
                It was dry, dusty, and very hot during the ‘Fasting Season’ of Ramadan. I was fasting with them. I never felt the heat and the drought, as my determination quenched my needs; despite the hours teaching English and playing soccer during recess. Their burning desire to grasp all the information we have taught them was very revitalizing. They spoke in French and I had to translate a lot of words from English to French for them to be able to understand; but like a sponge they absorbed it all in no time.
                A group of girls in the school gathered around me in a huddle. They touched my hair in fascination! My long silky tresses stood apart from their midnight black masses of curls. Their thick intricate braids, woven with delicate hands and creative taste, were tied with colorful ribbons, often wrapped with a scarf wound around their heads. They were surprised to learn my real name and I was astounded that my name is more popular in Africa than in my own country! Their school’s promoter also brought his first wife to me― just because she and I share the same name! Their amiable qualities and their social skills made me smile and forget that I was standing in one of the world’s poorest countries. I felt ashamed for the countless times I grimaced and flashed
my face with crumpled smiles, when I had everything I need to lead a comfortable and content life.
                Their classrooms were filled with kids ranging from the age of seven to fifteen. Some of the students were lucky to be educated at an early age and others were not that fortunate. The walls were bare and dusty. Book shelves positioned at the back of the classroom were filled with charitable books donated by our school. The floors were packed with wooden tables and chairs. Every little space available was precious. Every little space available saved an illiterate child. It was daunting to realize that these poor children in front of me, with all their modest and humble belongings, were considered ‘privileged!’ At that moment, being a student myself, I felt that with all the resources available to us in our own school, we should not be satisfied by merely passing. We owed it to ourselves and our parents to pass our classes with flying colors!
                Although the very poor wore tattered African tie-dyed and batik fabrics― if they were wearing any― their eyes were filled with glimmering hope and their faces lit up with honest smiles. They smiled with lightness and ease, since they owned the cherished gift of satisfaction; a wealth so great that many of us lack, no matter what background we come from and how much money we have. At that moment, it did not matter to me that the only greenery I noticed was the grass we walked on before I entered their small but impressive ethnographic National Museum, or that the green buses, called “bâchées vans,” we rode had ropes for doors; or even that our decent hotel, with all its air-conditioned spacious rooms and marbled floors, lacked ketchup!
                Every morning for a week, I would go to their school and teach the children a new lesson in grammar, some vocabularies, and would instruct them to write short sentences in their notebooks. Then, I and my fellow peers would chant the songs we scribbled on the chalkboard. Our students would sing along with us with their soft sweet voices. The dim classroom would suddenly feel vibrant and colorful, as though we formed a choir― performing angelic songs―touching our hearts before our ears.
                I blush every time I remember the day I instructed my own English professor not to write all the letters in capitals on the blackboard, because I was trying to teach my Malian friends that only the first letter in a sentence and the proper nouns start with capital letters. He kindly agreed and erased all that he had just written. I was flattered. For the first time, I felt like a real teacher, and that my students and professor took me seriously.
                The days passed quickly until it was time to bid my students farewell. Tears were streaming down their once cheerful faces, while their smiles, now drenched with tears, remained intact like a rainbow,
strong and powerful amidst showers of rain. The girls started to remove their own African trade beads and accessories, which they bought from the artisans in The Market. They handed them to me as a thank you gift before my departure, along with tiny scraps of paper marked with their home addresses. I did not want to take their jewels! Meeting them was more than enough! However, it would have been rude to return their thoughtful presents, so I accepted them with a shaky voice and smiling tears.
                As I reminisce the years that passed like sand cascading from an hourglass, the memory of attending a mask event at night suddenly came alive before my very eyes. I could not focus on the huge artistic costumes and carved wooden elaborate masks the performers skillfully wore. My whole attention shifted to a little boy called Ibrahim, who was not much older than my own son now. He was standing in front me and I, without thought, embraced and showered him with kisses. The next day, little Ibrahim came to search for me. He did not know that I would rather have the Earth devour me, than spend any time dancing publicly, but I gathered all my strength and courage and twirled with him along with other friends and children. We danced to their traditional music and the sounds of their “Tam-tams” or drums, reed flutes, and stringed gourd instruments. I did not want the boy to feel left out. For the first time, I did not care how silly I might have appeared or how poorly I performed my dance steps; I actually enjoyed myself!
                Not to forget the time I went strolling pasdes a pink sandstone village shaped into rock faces, when a little bewildered child spotted the flash of my camera. Within minutes, he had called all the children from their low, mud-walled houses and they climbed a tree! They stared at my camera and pointed at it, as I took more pictures. Their smiling faces beamed luminously up at me in fascination. A simple flash for these children was entertainment. Their excitement and enthusiasm was contagious as it streamed through my veins― providing me with genuine comfort and peace of mind, I never felt elsewhere. The photographic memory of that special day portrayed itself in my mind, whenever I see beautiful trees decorated with the freshest finest fruits; I smile, as if to say: “Nothing can beat that wonderful tree of children!”
                A sincere mom pulls out a brown leather handmade folder she bought eight years ago from Mali that holds most of her profound memories within. The latch comes off and curious, chubby hands fiddle the remains of a scarred past. I inhale the scent of oiled leather and dust and smile at my own son― a smile that hides a million tears underneath. “Baby,” I say, “someday you will come to appreciate all the little things in life―a sweet smile, a new word, a game of soccer, and a flash from a disposable camera. Someday you will learn that a kind smile is also charity and value the power of your little smile!”

About Me

Since I was a child, I had three dreams I wanted to fulfill. My first dream was to study law, which I have already completed. My second dream was to be a teacher. I did tutor kids and still teach my younger siblings all their subjects in depth. My third dream was to be a writer and publish at least one novel in my lifetime. This dream grew bigger in me each day until I finally decided it was time to step closer into changing my last and greatest dream to reality. 

I often imagine myself facing a dramatic incident or having a touching or serious conversation with someone and think of ways I would respond to that particular incident. My imagination grew and soared into another world, oblivious of those around me. Writing years of thoughts, dreams and experiences would certainly make me feel better and make it all worthwhile. 

Furthermore, I wish to write since there are few writers from my background and country who have written romance novels in English. Perhaps with determination, motivation and your cherished advice and guidance, I will be able to bridge between the English and Arabic worlds. I also hope to correct any misconception about our thoughts and customs by introducing ‘real’ and ‘unbiased’ behaviors of many modern United Arab Emirates’ individuals. I would use my writing to discuss foreign concepts in the lightest and fairest way possible by introducing characters that one could relate to, no matter what background or race they come from. 

I have been carrying a story in my mind for more than a year and I hope to transform my mere thoughts into writing and wish that it would someday become a published novel.

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