If I Could Gather Up The Nerve, I'd Put My Feelings Into Words

Okay. So I've finally decided to put my blogspot link up on my facebook account, under the information tab.

"Yeah, so?" you might ask.

So?! This is a huge deal for me. I know, it seems mundane, but putting up my blogspot link is like putting a part of me out there for everyone to see, to pick at, to dissect, to analyze; I'm uncomfortable with the idea.

"Well why did you decide to put it up then??"

Because in order for you to keep moving forward in life, you're going to eventually have to move out of your comfort zone, and be able to deal with it. I'm stepping out of my little box, and the air is so fresh up here.

I only ask of you one thing, dear reader: everything you read on this blog is genuine; it's me, unfiltered.

Please try to understand what I'm dealing with? I'm one of those people who has a hard time putting her feelings and thoughts into words. Actually, its pretty sad, but I'm probably going to be that girl that says, "Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to be a piece of cheese?" to her husband when he says, "I love you."

Put me in a situation like that one, and I'll fumble, fidget, and stutter.

...But give me a pen and paper and I'll write you volumes on how much I love you.

Death Be Not Proud

We made our way down the beige hallway, which seemed to stretch for miles. The freshly waxed tiled floor gleamed, and I felt disgusted by its shine.


I've always hated fluorescent lights, I thought.

After what seemed like an hour, we finally made it to her room, and I lingered back a little. I wasn't sure what to expect.

The only thing worse than expecting the worst is not knowing what to expect at all. Would she be hooked up to ominous-looking machines? Would she be deathly pale, with papery skin? Would she be excruciatingly thin?

Would she be the same Fatima I know and remember?

I took a deep breath and disappeared behind the curtains. I mentally braced myself for whatever was coming.

And what I saw stopped me in my tracks.

She looked...absolutely normal. A white sheet was pulled up under her chin, and a damp cloth rested on her brow. She was leaning back on some fluffy cloud-like pillows and her chest rose and fell rhythmically, in sync with the beeps of the heart monitor. Her eyes were closed, but they fluttered occasionally, and I thought I saw her fingers contract in an involuntary muscle spasm. It was when she inhaled deeply, like a person fast asleep, did I think that maybe, just for a second, maybe she was.

She's just sleeping. I could reach over right now and shake her arm until she woke up. But being Fatima, she won't wake up right away, of course. First she'd crack a smile, and it would give it all away; we'd all know she was just playing a big joke.

She's just being her regular Fatima-self. Its a prank, this whole thing.

And we'll say, "Okay Fatima, reeeeeal funny. Joke's over, now wake up!"

And she'll burst out laughing and say, "I got you guys good!" while pulling the IV lines out of her arms. And then Omar would start laughing too, and agree with her. And the doctors, they'll come in and exchange high-fives with Fatima, because they knew all along. And we'd all pretend to be upset that she tricked us like that, but we'd be laughing too. Because who can resist Fatima's disarming smile and chirping laughter?

"Hi, Fatima," I said quietly.

And I knew she heard the despair in my voice, the anguish and gloom, the distress and anxiety. I knew she heard it all.

I waited for the corners of her lips to curl up in a grin, for her laughter to fill the morose room.

I waited for her to wake up; she knew we weren't joking anymore.

But she didn't.

She just lay in her bed, rebelliously serene, and still in a deep sleep.

And I can't believe I'll never be able to hug her ever again. I won't get to share a smile, a joke, or a laugh with her. 

I won't get to hear her call me "Knee-Haw" again. 

And I won't get to threaten to trip her in public for calling me that.

And I miss her. So much.

She had the last laugh.

اللهم اغفر لها وارحمها وعافها واعف عنها وأكرم نزلها ووسع مدخلها واغسلها بالماء والثلج والبرد ونقها من الخطايا كما ينقى الثوب الأبيضمن الدنس وأبدلها دارا خيرا من دارها وأهلا خيرا من أهلها وأدخلها الجنة

اللهم إجعل قبر فاطمة قاسم روضة من رياض الجنة و ارحمه و إغفر لها و لنا يا رب العالمين

Hidden in Plain View

I was coming home from my night class last night when something occurred to me. And I've been restless ever since.

The cure for cancer? It's out there somewhere.

It could be in that weird looking tree branch you just threw for your neighbor's dog to fetch.

It could be in that weed you just uprooted with revulsion from your vegetable garden.

It could be in the pit of the peach you ate for a snack, which you tossed out without giving it a second thought. 

It could be anywhere.
And that scares me.

Have we really left no stone unturned in our search for it?
What if it's right under our noses and we can't see it?

What if it's like not being able to find the peanut butter jar, when it's right there in front of you? When you go through the entire cupboard, reaching past the jar every single time, until you finally dejectedly declare that you are out of peanut butter?

The Beauty of Athan

Indeed, this anger is the spark lit by Satan in the heart of the son of Adam.

It takes all my willpower not to slam my door. Once I am alone, I stand there and let it consume me, envelop me in its madness, and with it I become mad. I do not try to try to resist it; instead I embrace it like an unwelcomed guest. My face is warm with fury and my world turns a little red and hazy around the edges. My pulse is in my ears and my fists are balled up tightly, ready to land a blow.

I feel destructive. I want to smash something, punch a hole through a wall, shred something to pieces; I want to destroy something beautiful.

And I want chaos. Oh, how I want chaos.

And just as quickly as I became diseased with this deadly sin, I want out. I want control, I need control. It’s too warm in here, I need to cool down. I need to steady myself.

Starting with my hands, I try to release my iron grip on rage. But I can’t.

Maybe I need to sit down. Yes, I should sit down.

I yank open my bedroom window and sit as close to it as possible. The air is cool and brisk, and I shiver. I try to focus on breathing, try to clam my racing pulse.

But I’m still angry. Why won’t it leave me?

So I lie down and warm tears roll down my cheeks. I wipe them away and my palms sting. That’s when I notice the four red small crescent-shaped scratches in my palms, probably from how tightly I had made a fist earlier.

Time will be the only thing to exorcise this demon within me.

So I wait.

And I wait.

How long did I wait? It must have been hours, but it could have been minutes.

My laptop’s Athan goes off. It’s time to pray ‘Asr.

Go Do Your Homework. Or Something.

I don’t understand thirteen year olds who feel the need to insert f-bombs before every adjective in their facebook statuses, wall posts, comments, etc. I’m pretty sure we would all understand what they were trying to say, sans the obscenities.

You’d think that maybe it’s due to bad parenting, but 9 out of 10 times it’s not. Most of these kids actually come from honorable households, with caring mothers and hard-working fathers. It’s a shame that they repay their parents’ efforts with language worthy of a truck driver.

Is it peer pressure? Perhaps. But c’mon, they know that what they’re doing is wrong! I’m 100% sure if I threatened to print-screen their facebook page and show it to their mothers they’d crap their pants.

It’s a shame really. I remember when ‘shut up’ and ‘stupid’ were bad words. Now-a-days kids half my age manage to string together the most colorful profanities. Like seriously? You wanna grow up that quickly? I bet your mother still tucks you into bed at night.

Go do homework or something. Stupid kids…

(“Ooooh, teacher!! Nehal said a bad wordddddd!!”)