Scrolling through art pieces online of urban Aleppo, I come across one piece which enchants me. I check the price – far too pricey for an unemployed-fundraising-for-masters individual at the moment – I favourite the piece and carry on scrolling down. My eye craves a second look at the picture, so I return. I enlarge it and gaze at it. The birds. The domes. The satellites on rooftops – a perfectly imperfect urban landscape; rusty and beautiful. Ancient, yet full of life. Which type of magic can be so powerful that a mere still picture can completely captivate me? My heart throbs.

I turn up the music playing through my headphones, Mohammed Hamadiyeh’s “Al-Turath Ensemble”, and return my focus to the picture, zooming the lens on the birds beautifully captured in the centre. The ghazal of the Syrian ensemble and the picture take me back in time to a times simpler – to market places and curled slippers slapping the cobbled pathways of Aleppo; to moustaches and shrouds; emanating athan and after-prayer remembrance; rhythm, and a sea of elegant twirling white; night gatherings; ensembles filling the night sky; a free soul enjoying the warm, sweet scented air of a majestic city – once capital of commerce, literature, and free spirits.

The swift change of melody in the ensemble compliments my focus, it speeds up slightly, and my mind stops reflecting on the distant past, swiftly moving me through pages of history. I imagine the picture in front me changing slightly as the pages of history in mind flick till they find the present – the image fades and sharpens – colours brighten and dull according to the period in question – more buildings appear – and the birds travel back and forth. My zoom hovers over the two places of worship – standing side by side – a mosque and a church – barely differing in features; the church defined by a dome, and the mosque by piercing minarets. I can almost hear the voice of worshipers rising through the bustle of streets – I can envisage the single pathway leading both respective sanctuaries to each other; the children who yet know neither of formalities nor of despise, visiting each other in the different places of worship – turning each into their own heaven of memories and tales yet to be told – on the brink of being lost.

Finally, the zoom lands on the buildings in the distance. They fill the expanse of the urban landscape. My imagination invades the privacy of the families within the buildings as it travels across the many yards and jumps through the windows. I live with the families – I see the husband entering the flat carrying a gas tank on his back, calling for his children to roll it towards the kitchen – the children saved by their father from their mothers’ wrath – angry at them for returning home drenched in mud. I see the father stifle a laugh as he watches his children try to escape their mother’s stinging ear pinch, and I see her as she catches his eye and softens for a moment, before hiding her newly-discovered bemusement with a frown lest the children see! I travel through the flats – through the walls – up and down the stairs, observing the lives of those who once inhabited the buildings, until suddenly, they vanish. Error detected. My imagination stalls momentarily. I zoom out and in – frantically – yearning to return to my observations. My mind refreshes. Diversion: it brings me to reality. The buildings. The same buildings. Destroyed. I zoom out – trying to escape this sudden radical change – but zooming out only magnifies the expanse – and the destruction – I keep zooming out in panic – until I’ve almost zoomed out of the entire country. And suddenly, I’m at loss. All I wanted was to find a canvas for my bedroom – one of my mother’s hometown, and my first love. And now – I’m amid destruction and chaos, engulfed in stillness. Absolute stillness. As if I were the only person left in the world. My eyes well up. How cruel of reality to throw me in this stillness of despair and destruction.

And as if it had heard me curse it, reality picks me up and throws me back to my seat. Manchester, 4 am.

I sit – unsettled – I glance at the picture, the root cause of my entire journey, probing – questioning – why? Why unsettle a lover in such way? Why drown a nostalgic in tears and despair? Why pull at the heartstrings of a vulnerable heart, stinging it with anguish? Why?

A moment of silence.

An anguished sob; she unleashes her response – why gaze at my beauty, and journey my pathways – why invade my privacy and taste the bitter and the sweet of my past if you wish to restrict yourself to vacant borrowed memories, and not create ones of your own? Why dwell in my past if you don’t wish to make yourself my present and future? Why settle in a loaded history, when my present is lonely and in need of company? Why reduce me to tears and imagination when I need you most? By my side? Rebuilding me. Saving me from this darkness. Bringing me back to life.

And just like that, the ensemble moves on from the slow sorrow song to a faster one – the famous song of the Qadoka al-Mayaas. The picture blurs and refocuses, it shines brightly – radiant despite its grief, I reach out to destroyed buildings and pull myself in. I stand in the middle of the rubble ‘anta ahla al-nas fi nathari’ (you are the most beautiful in my eyes) – she replies la taqta3i al-amaal w la tantathiri (do not lose hope, do not wait). I kneel down, kiss the ground, and roll my sleeves.*

I can’t wait, Aleppo. I can’t wait Syria. I can’t wait to be standing in your very centre creating my own memories and your future. I can’t wait to purify my body and soul rebuilding you. I can’t wait for the countless canvasses of dirty hands and tired eyes. Of exhausted hearts and tears. I can’t wait for my first step on your liberated soil. To see acres of land upturning before our very eyes – for your rebirth. I can’t wait for the moment we build your first pillar – the instant we root the first column into your soil: rebuilding you – as a whole nation. I can’t wait to see you flourish and rise. I can’t wait for your first smile – the smile which cracks the ice and brings warmth back into your lands. I can’t wait for your dancing fountains. Your breathtaking sunrises. Your captivating sunsets. I can’t wait to feel your embrace – your love – for the first time. Most of all Syria, I can’t wait to fill my bedroom with enchanting canvasses and art pieces of your beauty, each filled with memories and hope, dreams, heartbreak, and love.

*Qadoka al-Mayaas is a famous Syrian folklore song, often attributed to heritage and classified in traditional ensembles. The two lines are part of the song – the latter where I have underlined the ‘la’ is my addition to the lyric, changing the meaning which originally meant ‘let go of hope and wait'; ‘la’ meaning no thus implying that Aleppo is refuting the song and telling me to not lose hope and to not wait – but rather to work – and hence my obedience depicted in the kneeling down and kissing the ground.

– For Mohamed Hamadiyeh’s “Al-Turath Ensemble” tape on YouTube, click here.

– For the canvas in question which inspired this post, click here.

As the clock strikes twelve, my only thought is – will you remember?

Did you ever remember?

Do you remember when it was your turn? The effort that was put. Just to see that smile. Just to feel the love. The promise to top everything I did, when it was finally my turn.

I doubt it.

You definitely topped it. But in a way completely unexpected.

A dream to rise in-love, axed down.

But He knows. He knows and we don’t. So I praise Him.

Perhaps if matters were different you would have truly forgotten what matters not to you, without needing an excuse.

Then, when massacres took place – we remembered, recorded, memorised every little detail we could hold on to. Our lives were a passionate soliloquy of ‘lest we forget’ and ‘justice will be served’, stamped with dates – March 15, March 18, April 19, May 25.. – sealed with relentless hope. Before we knew it there were too many dates coming in, too much for the ink to keep up with – some were scribbled in haste, others missed out. Ink running on slow supply fast restocked in alternative red. A once coherent legend turned blotchy, incoherent tragedy.
The details escalated, the numbers escalated, the outrage didn’t. And the new ink, became systematically cheaper.

19 April 2011, Homs. We thought it was the beginning of the end.

“They’re killing us Razan, massacre – tell all the people.”

“They died, my friends are martyrs – my best friend was killed. I shouldn’t have got away, I should have stayed with them. I should have died with them.”

Sighting Hope

The sheer irony which overcomes us on the eve of what we would call ‘Independence Day’ in Syria, where more colonisers stand on our soil today than ever before, infiltrating, killing, destroying what was once the cradle of civilisation. Bright youth and leaders of our generation are being annihilated left, right and centre; only today Abu Yazan al-Halabi was pronounced a martyr after being deeply wounded in a suicide attack by ISIS. A man who had left the safety of his residence in another country, and a brilliant job – just to join his fellow brethren 4 years ago in genuine revolution. In moments of weakness I give into despair over our complex situation – the mind stops functioning as I desperately try to sight a light at the end of the tunnel, and fail; not considering that perhaps the light is simply round the corner – as it was in 1946. Our nation overcame oppression and colonisation in 1946 and will do so again. It took us 26 years, but we got there. Perhaps it’ll take us another 26 years, but we’ll get there – definitely. And one day, inshallah, we’ll celebrate two Independence Days in the embrace of our watan.

Uncategorised #101

The beauty of this world oft transcends the human mind, in our fickleness and lack of appreciation. We gaze at sunrises such as this, uttering words of grace and praise to the Almighty, before moving on with our daily motions – our ‘functional’ selves. We allow ourselves to be moved by brilliance and beauty, documenting breathtaking sights and experiences as leisure – or at best, celebrating ourselves for our appreciation and love for nature and His creation. We ponder on verses in His Holy Book, verses on nature and His Might. Verses which capture the essence of beauty in His creation. We think. Yet, our mind limits itself to what we see and what we’re used to, what we read and how life is ‘supposed to go’. We deem things we’re not used to as ‘unnatural’ and take heed from anyone who offers unconventional alternatives. We refuse to accept the possibility of two contrasting elements working together beautifully, not realising the miracle of God’s creation we wax lyrical is itself the most unconventional extreme; and yet in it, we only see beauty. Doesn’t He merge shades of orange and pink, blue, white and purple altogether to paint us the most mesmerising sunrise? Doesn’t He illustrate every single shade of colour in His sky, every single day, for us to witness and ponder? Doesn’t He join warmth and breeze, rain and sun? Every day He exhibits the most radical contrasts for us to witness, and learn. He teaches us the essence of life, and to appreciate it for what it is – a constant stream of events and change; contrasts and beautiful results – some not so beautiful. But after dark there’s light, and after rain there’s shine, and when sun and rain come together creating a magnificent exhibition of brilliant colours in the sky, that’s His illustration of: إِنَّ مَعَ الْعُسْرِ يُسْراً – Verily with hardship there is ease. He teaches us, that life isn’t meant to be stable. He teaches us, that life’s imperfections is what beauty is about. He teaches us the fluidity of this life, and that even in the most perfect structures, there will be unexpected storm, thunder, and rain. He teaches us that life isn’t about planning, but about spontaneity and faith; that life doesn’t have a structure it abides by, it’s organic. He teaches us all this, for us to truly understand the meaning of tawakkul and faith, yet we limit it to our limited experiences. Our lack of appreciation and understanding of His words are exposed when we limit his Creation to ‘signs that He exists’ or signs of His Might and beauty in creation – without stopping and thinking a little deeper – perhaps pondering on the unspoken lesson God unveils to us through His nature, for us to appreciate and understand. Indeed, life would be so much more fulfilling if we saw the world with all the colours Allah swt created, as opposed to just the colours we’ve been indoctrinated to see.


يا روح لا تحزني
ويا قلب ضلك هني
زوار جينا عالديني
و العمر بحر و نهار

زوار جينا عالديني
يا هالفقير و هالغني

راس الشجاع ما بينحني
لو صار مهما صار

الذل طعمو مر ما يطيئو الحر
***الحب هوي السر و العمر تذكار ***

يلي غارق بالاوهام فِزْ اطلع لادام
عزك فيك و ذلك فيك هالعمر كلو منام

عزك فيك و ذلك فيك

Sometimes people walk away from love because it is so beautiful that it terrifies them. Sometimes they leave because the connection shines a bright light on their dark places and they are not ready to work them through. Sometimes they run away because they are not developmentally prepared to merge with another- they have more individuation work to do first. Sometimes they take off because love is not a priority in their lives- they have another path and purpose to walk first. Sometimes they end it because they prefer a relationship that is more practical than conscious, one that does not threaten the ways that they organize reality. Because so many of us carry shame, we have a tendency to personalize love’s leavings, triggered by the rejection and feelings of abandonment. But this is not always true. Sometimes it has nothing to do with us. Sometimes the one who leaves is just not ready to hold it safe. Sometimes they know something we don’t- they know their limits at that moment in time. Real love is no easy path- readiness is everything. May we grieve loss without personalizing it. May we learn to love ourselves in the absence of the lover.
—  Jeff Brown, An Uncommon Bond

On Belonging

Identity has always been an issue for me – I give it far too much importance – always wanting to know who I am, what kind of person I am, where I belong, where home is – among whom I find home. And here’s the answer – I rarely ever feel like I belong.

The issue here is beyond ancestry and heritage, rather all encompassing. People often find themselves amongst their friendship groups, their universities, their ISoc’s, their family circles. I never did. I always felt distant despite my social nature and many acquaintances. As though I was always on a different wave-length – unable integrate with my surroundings and become one and the same. I see the people I went to university with – all tight-nit friendship groups even after graduation, and then there’s me. The same scenario is reciprocated with the community I was brought up in, and the people I attended circles and organised events with. Then there’s societies – never being able to immerse myself fully in either Syrian/Arab societies, nor British society. To both societies, I’m different – the stark ‘other’.

My thoughts and ideas – oft rejected. Perhaps its because I have no boundaries – and think of everything and anything. To my mind, everything is possible – to others, I’m unrealistic, weird. It gets to points sometimes where I doubt my own sanity, the limitations of my brain. Perhaps I am different.

It’s ironic really, that the only time I felt I properly belonged somewhere, was in a house where people from all different backgrounds were gathered. We were mostly of Syrian ancestry, united by the revolution, but other than that – each person was brought up in a different country or generation – spoke different languages and specialised in an array of different professions. We lived together for five days, and only then did I feel at home. Amongst a people I had met for the first time in my life, and yet it was as though I had known them all my life. We were home in our differences – our different experiences and understandings – our different natures and characteristics – we were home in our mutual appreciation and respect for each other – our mutual excitement at engaging with new ideas and living the experiences of each other through our stories and late night sessions – which we managed to communicate and express despite the language barriers.

I guess belonging isn’t much about similar backgrounds and degrees – or heritage and nationality, as much as it is about appreciation, an openness to accept others, and overall – freedom. For myself anyway, the only time I truly felt like I belonged was amongst free souls; a people who craved freedom and didn’t allow anything to get in between their souls and freedom.