Unleashing the Wound

A Boxing Tournament Episode #12

Over a cup of coffee weeks ago, a friend tried to explain to me the concept of a wound. I came out of the conversation with a visual; the beginning of every school year as a child. Every class had its own notebook. Every notebook started with a first lesson. Every year, not a single notebook survived tearing several pages at the beginning of every class. I would tear the first page then the second and so on to get rid of every imperfection either in spelling or hand writing till a page survives the challenge and proves to deserve becoming a first page.

Due to the nature of the notebooks, every torn page from the front was tied to another at the end and this is how every torn page had to leave with a blank paper from the end in spite of the fact that the latter was still blank.

As a child, I did not realize that in life, every early abandonment meant an end of something that did not even get to start. The absence of such realization led to a teenage despising any objection from my superiors towards my strong desire to end any activity that did not start as perfectly as I wished.

Years passed and adulthood came with depth of responsibilities and shallow knowledge of what tiny habits of childhood reflected in the process of one of the most important imposed requirements of adulthood: Maturity.

A wound, for an adult, meant a physical opening somewhere with traces of recent or past graphic trauma. Nobody warned us that wounds in the soul were much more graphic in a way that maybe they should come with a warning tag when spoken of like the one that comes with physical graphic images that follow wars in the press. Maybe because “Modern ethics” have been capable of drawing lines around what is seen more than what is felt not out of bad intentions but maybe because nonphysical inner wounds are only found in psychiatry text books and clinics as well psychologists  and sociologists publications or counseling sessions designed by the former and the latter. That in itself is an issue when you are a sociologist yourself who recalls the number one rule in  social work classes in college: Do not get personally involved in your cases or clients! My professors and trainers got me well prepared for that in a way that I did better than them at a very early stage; I never got involved and remained as objective as possible except for a few times when even then I contained my break downs resulting from a certain degree of subjectivity in a minor breakdown in my  bedroom. Those breakdowns to me were dealt with as minor symptoms of a researcher’s subjectivity, which make up products helped a great deal covering the morning after before the conference/meeting/workshop that applauded my research findings would start. What my college classes and trainings did not advise was what to do when the case/the client is me?

Maturity, the most recognizable requirement of adulthood, is decorated in a manner that makes inner wounds too childish to acknowledge especially when the wounded is “Accomplished”. Maturity is that social demand that considers songs depicting wounds in all languages and genres beautiful and honors its composers and lyrics writers. However, these social demands are schizophrenic enough  to dismiss the same tunes when the “Accomplished” use them to manifest their wounds because in the world of mature adulthood, successful individuals should know better than to dedicate enough effort into recognizing something that is too “Abstract”. In best cases, the modern world has assigned clinics and medication to leash the wounds as leashing or any other measure at any cost is needed for the successful to continue the workflow. In this world of success pursue, there is no place for inner wounds or wounds at all. In other words, there is enough Prozac and Advil to keep us going.

For a year and a half of the longest  writers’ block I have ever experienced, I blocked the block to succeed and write professionally. Reports, studies and papers kept on coming as long as I leashed the wound. The wound was leashed enough to produce academic writing, but not enough to overcome the one block that mattered; the block between me and this blog. A blog on a boxing tournament of a life time did not work well with the level of professionalism needed when you write , academically, for a living. This blog is the one place where the wound fails to be leashed and ,therefore, it had to be abandoned with its imperfections that are similar to the pages I tore from every new notebook at the beginning of every school year.

To the contrary of my constant steps towards maturity dismissing wounds and their songs by tearing flawed pages to achieve and succeed, I have decided to put it all aside and as unaccomplished, unsuccessful and immature as it can get, I have decided to abandon everything and weep. I have decided to weep and moan and stitch the pages together towards the imperfect adulthood I must reconcile with. I have officially entered my mourning period not to heal but to find the wound.

The coming blog posts will mourn what social maturity considered imperfect pages that stood in the way of success. They will look further into the possibility of keeping the pages simply for the sheer desire of knowing what the blank ones on the back could/could have held.

After one year and a half, the wound shall be unleashed. This time, no graphic warning tags will guard what is abstract enough to be the one thing that is real.

International Women's Day? Getting to Know the Extraordinary "Ordinary" Us

In the middle of a three hour argument, we reached this conversation:

Me: Would you just shut up and listen to me?

Him: If you insist that I am every bad man in the world, I will play so today to meet the discription and I am not going to let you talk when you are upset.

Me: Fine! Then I am not upset, can I talk now?

Him: If you are not upset, SING! Prove it and sing.

Me: I don’t know any songs, I forgot them all.

Of all the things he bedazzeled me with in the past year, the one thing I never admitted out loud was how fastinated I am with his ability of memorizing lyrics. Every single time we drove and he started singing along with the radio, I struggled to do the same with no use.

I recall those days when I was a high school student and music was my only home. In the 9th grade, we had a teacher who tried to invite me to a theology class in the mosque where her father was the Imam. I agreed at the beginning  as all the requirments were fine by me starting with what I was required to dress and ending with stuff she described as the keys to heaven, which did not seem difficult at all as I was already doing them. The one thing that kept me away is how she dedicated time in each class to keep us away from music. To my childish pure soul back then, anything can contradict with faith except music. I was willing to be deprived from anything but music.

Years later, I found out that what stole my amazing ability to memorize lyrics was not faith or religion classes. My daily struggles did.

It striked me really hard when he said that I have not been able to express anything at all but anger lately. In her novel   “ Sing You Home“, Jodi Picoult says: “You know how I get angry sometimes? That's because it's the only way I can still feel. And I need to test myself, to make sure I'm really here.”

I grew up fighting for the “ Power Storage“ , which was mostly rain, coffee, ice cream, cotton candy, books and music. Those are what protected me throughout the years from compromising what I really want out of life. It was never bitter anger until lately.

When I was 17, my English teacher sat back enjoying a student’s presentation on how belly dance must be one of every wife’s duties. Everyone was laughing and I was very angry and yet managed to express my point without carrying my anger home and ruining my rock/reading hour before I had ice-cream and watched my favorite sitcom.

Through the years, I got so busy growing a thick skin. Yes, my skin became thick enough to contain layers that would prevent me from falling apart when disappointments, betrayals, sexism, patriarchy, social injustice, death, wars, inner battles, bad health, harassment, abuse, heart breaks, brutal work deadlines, judgments hit me right under the belt in this continuous boxing tournament called: Life. The package that grew along with the thick skin was something I have not been aware of until today.

My friend told me that we have become so accustomed to bitterness that we think it is normal. On the way back from her house, the past 5 years of my life ran through my head. Since I was a senior in college and faced the reality of my different choices, I received one slap after another and I used up my whole storage of rain, coffee, ice cream, cotton candy, books and music. So I forgot all the lyrics. I am now left with the thick skin, but is it alone enough? Is anger really the only way for me to exist. Let it be! But when it turns into bitterness, then there has to be an intervention.

Today, my friend Tanya wrote to me from Sweden greeting me on the International Day of Women:

For me the International Women's Day has at times been something I have cared much for, when I was a teenager and struggeling against the pressure I felt from my society to be the "perfect Western woman" - expected to be happy, caring, successfull - all the time, expected to be individualistic, to be special, and a great friend, and family member and also at school good looking, sexually liberated and yet not too liberated to be this or that, etc etc etc. And when I got involved here at women's shelters and gave therapy to battered and raped women. and then i did campaigns against the objectification of women's bodies etc. But then with years I have more and more felt that the day is a day when i need to step back and learn and let others lead. and talk. My role these days is as a listener, student of women.

 

I saw her message right after I wrote to  “His“ mother whose two sons were taken away from her with a court order after she asked for a divorce in a simple manifestation of this eternal choice women are put to make: “Either Liberty or agony” and when we choose liberty, there comes suffrage as well and then we are put to make a choice between agony and agony. This year, and coincidentally right before Tania wrote to me, I decided not to protest or go to conferences on women’s rights but to simply write to the women who touched me deeply this year. One of those women is me.   

Dear Me,

I am sorry you had to go through so much, but it all made you and don’t we love you enough to moisturize the thick skin with its beholder’s beauty so that it does not crack ? I am not asking you to forget, you cannot let go of what liberated you and in this case it’s been pain. But isn't it only fair that after you claimed the street that you enjoy that and simply walk more? Isn't it only fair that you have overcome body image media impositions and stereotypes that you let him love you that way you have learned yourself without feeding him fears he cannot even relate too, because believe it or not there are men who went through our same struggles of beauty definitions and they do get it? Isn't it only fair to write in that newspaper column and that blog you fought so hard to get some space in under this time of patriarchal political polarization that would not let a woman like you exist and yet you did/do and will? Why did you stop writing? Isn't it only fair that you filter the anger to lose the bitterness and keep the anger the provokes the one thing you master the most: Taking actions? Isn't it only fair that you get to know the “You” that everyone around looks up to? Isn't it only fair that you enjoy the job you worked so hard to build your name at in spite of the taboos and the dos and don’ts ? Isn't it only fair that you fill up the storage with rain, coffee, ice cream, cotton candy, books and music because tough days are yet to come? Isn't it only fair that after your battle to get to know what you want, you enjoy them after getting them?

This year, I did not go for public events. In fact, I did not even watch the news all day. This year, on the International Women’s Day, I wrote to extraordinary  “Ordinary” women who do not do public speaking or attend gender workshops and maybe never attend March 8^th. protests. I wrote to my mom recognizing her daily battles between both of her paid and unpaid jobs knowing that the second is always dismayed as invisible effort simply because these are the duties of 30 years of being taken for granted. I wrote to “His” mom who cannot sing happy birthday to her son who was born on the International Day of Women but was taken away from her by a father who used a court that is probably celebrating this day with a fancy dinner in some sort of an elite club or conference. I wrote to my best friends who strive each and  every day between inner and outer battles to simply BE. This year, I wrote to me while listening to the music I once fought to keep. This year my one and only battle would be not lost myself so that I can have enough of it to fight for more because apparently the battles have not even started.

رسالة إلى الرئيس عبد ربه منصور هادي

نشر في صحيفة الشارع بتاريخ 16 يناير 2014

قبل أيام خرجت بحثاً عن هذا الهواء الذي كلما اشتكيت من ضيق ألم بي, انهمرت علي النصائح بأن "أشمه" و كأن جسدي الغارق في آلام لا يجب أن يعرفها في ربيعي الخامس و العشرين لن يجد خلاصه إلا في الهواء الذي لا أجد أثناء بحثي عنه سوى لسعات برد شتاء لم تعرفه اليمن منذ عشرين سنة و كأن سكان الرصيف لم يكن ينقصهم إلى هذا الزمهرير ليضيفوا إلى قرقرة البطون الخاوية صكيك الأسنان المنذرة بجثة جديدة لم تستطع تبرعات البطانيات تغطيتها. مشيت لأكثر من نصف ساعة و حين استسلمت لخلو مدينتي من الهواء المخلص من خيبات الأمل, اشتريت دفتراً و ركنته في درج مكتبتي منتظرة أوان فتحه الذي حان حينما قطع منبه الهاتف ساعات السلم الوحيدة في يومي و أفاقني من سباتي الذي تجاوزت نصف ساعات النهار ليقودني التاريخ المقيد على شاشة الهاتف للدرج لأكتب للرئيس عبد ربه منصور هادي.

أخي الرئيس:
اعتدت ضحك من حولي كلما خاطبتك بصوتٍ عال وسط خيالات الشموع في هذا البيت أو ذاك حيث تشبه الجدران بعضها في ظلام الخبطات التي عصت على دولتكم و هو الأمر الذي اخترت قانعة أن لا أفكر فيه لأن فكرة عدم قدرة دولة على حماية برجٍ كهربائي مرعبة و أنا أخاف كثيرا و لا أريد أن أضيف إلى كتاب مخاوفي فصلاً آخر. بالعودةِ إلى حديثنا, نعم أحدثك كثيراً كوني لا أرى ما يرى فيك الناس من عجز يُقرَنُ بالوضعين الإقليمي و الدولي المتحكمين بالبلد, فقد اعتدت على أن أخاطب الناس وفق توقعاتي منهم و حين صرت رئيساً توقعتك كذلك و لم أتوقعك وسيطا للآخرين في بلدك و على هذا الأساس أحدثك من وقت لآخر لأني أعلم جيداً أننا لا يمكن أن نسائل أحداُ إلا إذا اعتبرناه مسؤولا في بادئ الأمر.

لم أفكر أبداً في كتابة النقاش من طرف واحد معك حتى اشتريت هذا الدفتر, و اليوم قررت أن أكتب روايتي الخاصة لما توقعته منك في فبراير 2012 و ما وصلنا إليه اليوم. لطالما آمنت أن الصمت يمنحنا القدرة على تكوين رؤية أفضل, لذا أظنك استطعت أن ترى المشهد في يناير 2011 بطريقة أوضح من الجميع و أن تسمع أصوات شابات و شباب هذا البلد التي اخترقت كل عزلة, أظنك أيضاً لحظت اغتيال تلك الأصوات في الحادي و العشرين من مارس 2011 و كأنها أهم فصول المسرحية الدخيلة التي كتبها طائر الخراب لخلق نزاع مسلح زينه ساسة هذا البلد للعالم على أنه احتراب الشعب مع الشعب لا العسكر مع العسكر تمهيداً لاقتسام البلد مرة أخرى لحساب ال 1% من سلطة و معارضة شريكة لها و كأن ال 99% الباقية من هذا الشعب يعيشون ذات القدر منذ منتصف القرن الماضي الذي لم تكن مبادرة نوفمبر 2011 إلا آخر أوراق ابتزازه.

أظنك شاهدتهم و هم يرشون دماءنا و عرقنا و دموعنا على أوراق حرسها الإقليم و العالم في الرياض, و لكنك أيضاً شاهدت الشعب يحمل ما تبقى لديه صوبك في فبراير 2012 ليسمو فوق أكذوبة النزاع المسلح رغبةً في سلم يمكنه من جمع ما تبقى من حلم العدالة الاجتماعية و برغم صمتك إلى جانب طائر الخراب الراقص على رؤوس الثعابين وجد فيك حنكة استنجد فيها ضد الثعابين المتناحرة.

أكتب لك و أنا أعرف أن دواوين قصور المُلك تتسع للجميع عداي و غيري من ال 99% إلا أني لم أعتد هجر الدفاتر الجديدة فوحدها هي تقتل ما أفرغ هذا البلد من كل شيء, كل شيء حتى الهواء!

في فبراير 2012 أدليت بصوتي لك في أول مرة أقصد فيها مركز اقتراع بالرغم من ادخاري لهذا الصوت لانتخاباتٍ نزيهة كانت أقل ما يمكن أن أشهده بعد أن دفنت رفاق الدرس واحداً تلو الآخر برصاص الأمن المركزي. دسست الورقة في الصندوق و أنا أرقب النسوة اللاتي تركن قراهن للتصويت لك يقصدونك من أجل السلم الذي تغنت به التظاهرات السلمية التي كانت تفيض بين قذائف الفرقة الأولى مدرع و الحرس الجمهوري هاتفة مدنية مدنية لا للحرب الأهلية, انحاز لك الناس لتنحاز للتنور و المعول و القلم و الطريق المعبدة و حبة الدواء, و لم ينحازوا لك إيماناً بكتالوج الأمم المتحدة. انحاز لك الشعب لترى في مدينتك أبين جنة للجنوب لا لأن تصف الطائرات الأمريكية التي تقتل قاطنيها بأعظم اختراع عرفته البشرية, اختارك لتخلص هذا الشعب من كهنوت التطرف المسلح بالتيار الكهربائي و مياه الشرب و المدارس و المستشفيات, اختارك لتعيد لشعب الجنوب الأرض المغتصبة و الوظيفة الحكومية التي يستجديها أبناء الجنوب في ذل ليس كمثله ذل و أنت تجاهلت النقاط العشرين التي كانت ستعيد للجنوبين الثقة في الوحدة التي ناضلوا هم من أجلها قبل غيرهم. أبناء الجنوب الذين خرجوا سلميين في 2007 قبل أن يعرف الإعلام الربيع العربي, لنسقط في 14 يناير 2014سهواً من تقرير الجزيرة الناطقة باللغة الانجليزية عن الثورات و كأن هذا البلد غير مرئي و كأن شعبه لم يكن و لن يكون. انحاز لك الناس آملين في أن تعوض صمت السنين الست بمصابيح و طرقات و كتب تمحو قسوة الحرب عن مُحيّا أطفال صعدة و لكنك تركتها لمليشيات مسلحة تستورد لبنان الحرب الأهلية. اختارك الشعب لتنتصر له و للمدنية و المواطنة المتساوية و أن تفرض هيبة الدولة على أي نزاع مسلح دخيل, إلا أننا شهدنا تطهيراً طائفي لم يعرفه أهل اليمن حتى في أقسى الحروب ليسطر طرف ثيوقراطي على جزء من الأرض دافعاً بالثيوقراطي الآخر نحو الالتحاق بمسلحين كأولئك الذين أعدموا الطبيبات و الأطباء و الممرضات و الممرضين في مستشفى العرضي. اختارك الشعب خوفاً مما ألنا إليه اليوم و هرباً من سلاح الرياض و طهران, اختارك الشعب ليشعر المركز بوجع الأطراف في عدن و أبين و الضالع و تعز المكلا و مأرب و الجوف و صعدة و رداع و وصاب و غيرها من المنسيات التي بدلاً من أن تلحق بصنعاء, بتنا نرى صنعاء هي التي تلحقها باستثناء مقاطعة الموفنبيك الأممية التي بات أسمنتها أشد صمماً من إسمنت قصر الرئاسة.



أخي الرئيس:

أشك أنك ستقرأ ما كتبت و أعلم أن دفتري سيلاقي حتفه كسابقيه حين يحل موعد النزوح القادم من حربٍ لا شأن لنا بها كالعادة. و لكن, إن حدثت معجزة و فررت من قصرك بحثاً عن هواءً كذلك الذي أبحث عنه, و قادتك قدماك لابتسامة طفلة تبيع الجريدة لشراء رغيف تقتسمه مع خمسة غيرها, اقرأ رسالتي في الشارع بين عبق تنور من صوتن لك و رائحة الهريسة التي يجول بها الباعة الذين اختاروك و أصوات مواطير الكهرباء التي عليك أن تصارعها لتستمر في القراءة فما زال هناك متسع من الوقت لتستمع لل 99% الذين لن يوصل كتالوج الأمم المتحدة أصواتهن و أصواتهم إليك