الكلام ده لكل شاب و راجل مش مرتبط، اعزب، بيفكر يخش علاقة، عايز بس مش قادر، قادر بس مقيد، مش مقتنع بس من جواه عايز اوي. واحد عايز يتعرف بس خايف.
النهارده بحتفل بست شهور في علاقة. بذلت مجهود و تفكير الاقي صيغة بالعربي لعبارة relationship بالانجلبزي من غير علامات استفهم. اظن ان مفيش الصراحة كلمة تعني a committed relationship برا نطاق الخطوبة او الجواز و ده مفهوم بحكم ان كلمة تعارف لا تساوي بالتحديد a committed relationship. Dating و relationship عبارات و افكار دخيلة على الثقافة الشرقية و في غياب مصطلحات تواكب الشرق تسخدم تلك العبارات. بس هناك فجوة رهيبة بين المفهوم الشرقي و الغربي و بالتالي نجد صعوبة في التعبير.
التفكير الوصفي (thinking on a meta level) حتة من لحمي و بالاخص التفكير المقارن بين اللغات. حسيت اوي بوجود التفكير في حياتي في اخر ستة اشهر. بتكلم عربي و انجليزي و بعدي كل فكرة و كلمة من خلال التواصل نفسه و مقارنة الكلام بين اللغات. البعد يظن “ايه يا عم كل ده، جايب وقت لده من فين!” الحقيقة ان صار كل ده بشكل لا ارادي و بديهي. بحبه. جزء من شخصيتي و تركيبتي.
قررت من زمان اني هتواجد في ارض جديدة، بين الكلام السلبي المخفي عن الجواز و الارتباط (“يا عم بلا هم… كلهم صنف واحد… كبر دماغك… عاملها كانها ملاك… سيطر… تتجوز ليه و تتوكس ليه… خليك سينجل و عيش حياتك… الجواز غم و مسؤلية”)، و الكلام الخيالي المطلق المستخرج من الميديا و الافلام (“الجواز الحل لكل مشكلاتي… عمري ما هحس بالوحدة تاني… الرومانسية اهم حاجه في العلاقة… البنت هتسد كل احتياجاتي.. الفرح اهم يوم في حياتنا… الحب يحل كالمشاكل”)
انا متبقي من فكر الخيالي و ارفض المنظور السلبي. و هفضل ارفض و احارب الفكر السلبي بدون مهاجمة او انتقد بشكل مباشر. هحارب الفكر من خلال فكر و ممارسة – أمل انه فكر سليم – حسب الكتاب المقدس و فكر الله في الارتباط و الجواز.
انا مخلوط و مزيج من الشرق و الغرب، النور و الظلمة، الماضي و الحاضر، الشخصي المكتسب و المروث، النظري و المعاش. و العلاقة بتكشف لي مدة الخلط و المزيج، و نسبة العمل المطلوبة في تفكيك الافكار و التصرفات اللي ممكن تعطلني و تهددنا او تكون سبب اذى. العلاقة نادي تمرين (gymnasium) بالمعنة و الغرض عن اليونانيون القدماء، تمرين و تهذيب الذهن و العقل و الجسد و القلب. عمل دائم.
ادركت و بادرك افكاري و معتقداتي عن الرجولة و الانوثة. من حين الى اخر افهم ايه اللي دايقني، ليه اتعصبت او حسيت بالاهانة، الاهمال. كنت فاكر نفسي سلس و متفهم، بس في حاجات بقفش، حدث بسيط يفجر جويا مشاعر الرفض و الخزي. كنت عارف اني عندي محفظات كتيرة و لكن اكتشفت اني عندي اكتر من كده، اجزاء من العالم الداخلي غير مستكشفة و غير مختبرة.
مدة نجاح العلاقة و التواصل متناسب مع مدة و استعداد تعبيري عن مشاعري و افكاري، مش متناسب مع مدة ادائي في دور الراجل الكريم او اللطيف او المؤدب او الملفت. كل ده مهم و مرغوب فيه بس تواجدي في العلاقة اهم. اتأخد مسؤلية مشاعري و تصرفاتي. مشاكلي. تسديد احتياجاتي. رجولتي في ده. مش علو صوتي و لا عمق غضبي. اتعلمت اكتر لما كنت هادي و متحكم في نفسي عن لما فقدت اعصابي و اتهورت.
٦ اشهر من النمو و التدريب و التمرين و العمل، اعطاء و الخدمة و التواجد. الاعمال البسيطة. التعبير و الاستماع. حل المشاكل مع بعد، مش جوا زنزانة دماغي، في الارض الجديدة، بثقة انها ترغب في الحل و نمو و نجاح العلاقة.
دخلت المشروع ده و انا مٌحمّل من الماضي، بمخاوف و صدمات و افكار مسبقة و هلاوس و معتقدات من الشلاحات. اي حد يقللك انك لازم تبقى جاهز و مثالي وغد و احمق. جرب و شوف. اعظم و اصعب و اكبر تحدي في حياتك. كان كده بالنسبة لي. المخاوف قلٍت و الصدمات بفهمها و بتعامل معها، و الافكار المسبقة بفكهم و بعيد تركيب المفيد و ترك الخطاء. و الشلاحات الحمدلله بتاعمل معها بفكاهة و سلاسة.
ماحدش علمني الكلام ده. ماكنش ينفع اتعلم ده في كورس و الكتب على قد ما اليوتيوب و كتب معينة كانوا محورين في تفكري. بس اتعلمت العوم لما نزلت البحر. و العلاقة دي بحر. كنت بحب المياه بس مرعوب من الحميمية و التواصل. النهارده بحب البحر و مش خايف منه.
اُترك المدرستين، السلبية و الخيالية، و جرّب.
انا ممتن اوي لربنا اني جربت بعد ماسمحت له انه يهدم اللي كان مترسخ جوا و بيعيد بنائه. بثق فس الرب و مش ملتزم بالنتيجة. طبعا عايز المشروح يكمل، بس سلمت النتيجة لربنا و بركز على الرحلة و العمل. الله خلقني لكي اعمل.
و انا فخور بنفسي اني بعمل في الارض الجديدة. بثق فنفسي اني بتعلم و بنمو و بتغير.
2 وَلا تَتَشَبَّهُوا بِهَذَا الْعَالَمِ، بَلْ تَغَيَّرُوا بِتَجْدِيدِ الذِّهْنِ، لِتُمَيِّزُوا مَا هِيَ إِرَادَةُ اللهِ الصَّالِحَةُ الْمَقْبُولَةُ الْكَامِلَةُ.
Category: Identity
Captain My Captain 💔
I haven’t written anything about Fadi since his passing 3 years ago today. It was both an intentional decision and in hindsight, a wise one. I know myself and I have been through a loss before on social media. I had no control before and I just spilled everything online, almost in real-time. I didn’t want to do that. I wanted to grieve privately and allow others to grieve in their own way. I would have resented people, most probably, had my acts of public grief not been met with immediate praise and validation.
Watching others in my family grieve publicly and openly on social media was difficult at times because a part of me wanted to join in. But he was my cousin and he was their brother, husband, and uncle. They were closer. His passing hit them deeper and harder. His loss broke me, but I decided that it was their time to grieve. My relationship with Fadi was different than theirs.
Fadi was my father, mother, and sister. He was my family. He was my safe space, my north star, captain my captain. He laid his hand lovingly on my shoulder. Him dying brought that all to the conscious. That’s why it was so devastating. I had taken him for granted while he was on earth. I couldn’t admit this to myself then. But it’s become obvious over time that I just assumed, perhaps childishly, that he would always be here. He would be best man at my wedding. We would sit in his garden in Mâne and have coffee and talk music. He would give me his blessing about my wife and he would see my children grow up. I would grow older and he would be there. I would dedicate albums to him and honor him at gigs. I would invite him on my first tour to guest feature and let him steal the show. I would consult him on songwriting and get back his stone-cold, sharp critique. Him dying wasn’t part of the equation.
His death revealed to me how deeply I loved him and how much he meant to me. How I didn’t show up for him. How I didn’t visit him enough, despite him living only 2 hours away from Stockholm. How he would show up in my dreams when I would be so sad and disheartened. How I didn’t ask enough about him, check in, see what he needed, just connect with him. I did no work of the intimacy pursuant to the depth of love I felt for him.
I’ve only dreamt of him a few times since his passing, signaling to me perhaps that him not being in this realm means he’s also left my consciousness. I’m growing up and growing older without him. I still think of him and I still love him. But he’s not part of my every breath, as he used to be for a while after his death. He’s no longer part of my subconscious stirring quietly, like when he was alive.
I had his wedding anniversary saved in my calendar. It was the day before his death. I deleted it. He’s no longer here.
I used to go back and re-read his messages and our conversations. I haven’t done that in a while. He’s no longer here.
I would stop and notice when his photo would show up in other profile photos. The other day, I saw him and I was surprised he was there. Then, I remembered that he was gone. He’s no longer here.
I became sad that his death had become a given. Just like I had taken his life for granted.
As I approached this year’s memorial, I have started to stop and look wistfully at his old apartment door here in Cairo. I never thought that I would live in Cairo, let alone live here without him being alive. It didn’t matter if he had lived here or in France. He just needed to be alive. But I pass by his door and there is no trace of him. The door has been re-modelled and re-designed. On my first day here back in March, I happened to see the inside of the hallway, as I was passing. The new owners had left the door open and I peered in. The walls are different and the flooring is different. The image from my childhood and teenage years is gone. He is gone and so is his apartment. It’s now an unmarked grave. There is no physical evidence of it being his apartment other than the memories in me and all whom knew him.
In poorer parts of Egypt, it is common for people to live close to, or on top, or next to communal tombs. It could be their immediate or even distant relatives. I never quite understood this, thinking as a Westerner. It seemed macabre and odd. Death should be separate and removed out of sight. We shouldn’t have it staring it in our faces every day. It should be in a graveyard, far away from everyday life, perhaps on church grounds or even outside the city.
But this is Egypt. Our pharaonic heritage reminds us that life and death co-exist silently. We live together with death. And now, despite being fortunate to live in a middle-income area of Cairo, I live on top of my cousin’s grave. His grave is in my apartment building and I pass it multiple times a day. Some days, I notice it and I remember him. On other days, I pass by the 3rd floor and I don’t even think about it. I barely remember it’s there. Living on top of a grave has become a normal thing to me. It’s comforting. Despite his grave bearing no marks of him, I knew he was there and I knew he lived there.
Earlier this evening, I took the stairs instead of taking the elevator and I stopped outside the apartment, the grave. I imagined the old grey door, recalling where the broken piece of stained glass was. I used to peer through this when I was younger, to see what was going on inside, whether he was inside jamming or hanging out with friends or if it was dark. It was a portal into the world of love and unconditional acceptance. I came back to the present and saw a polished, brown door. Not his. The portal is gone and he is gone. And his passing no longer pains me. It’s become a part of my bones.
I miss Fadi, the musician, the effortless listener, the philosopher, the comedian, the egyptologist, the polyglot, the older brother, the everything. My everything. His hand no longer rests lovingly on my shoulder. Captain my captain.
I Was At The Beach
I was at the beach this past week. Gorgeous blue water under an equally sublime blue sky, sporting a scorching sun. White, rocky sand with a horizon in which your eyes get lost in.
I am one part human, one part penguin. I can be in the water all day, eschewing the pain of being sunburnt. (This year, the latter avoided by dutiful and consistent application of sunscreen.) And I channeled my inner penguin and basked in the warm familiarity of sea water. Not as long as I did in childhood, but enough to experience water. Not because it feels good or because it’s summer or because I’m on vacation, but the very force of water on my skin. The closest thing I have as an adult to the womb I don’t remember. But this is womb-like.
Being in water used to be respite and solace as a child, a place to be in for as long as possible until I would get back to the unfamiliar and impersonal world I struggled to understand. But the water was silent and welcoming. I came in, it enveloped me. I left it, it continued without me.
I fight my factory settings of being prim and proper, subdued and dutiful, but the water brings out play. Floating on my back, diving to the bottom of the pool, wiggling like a wet squirrel under the surface – an endless combination of games that require only me in silence. Water is fabulous that way. It’s a womb and home and playground.
Despite its inherent pleasure, water reminds me of loneliness. The endless hours of playing in there as a child were hours of being reminded of loneliness and aloneness. This struck me last year, when I was on vacation in Spain. A loud, boisterous pool filled with happy, excited children and parents… and there I was, supposedly in my beloved lair and it felt so lonely.
I felt this loneliness again this past week, but it didn’t crush me. It didn’t scream for medication or depress me. It just said, Remember this? And I answered, yes.
Being in the water reminds me of my very first short story that I wrote in 2015, enclosed below.
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Love is Water
Her knuckles found home on the same line on the door. Her eyes hung low as she waited for her common sense to ebb. When that would happen, she would be assailed by the stench of pain and stale liquor reeking through the wood. True as death, it happened. Today, a stranger was present, too.
“Dora.”
It was the rare weakness in Zach’s voice. She hadn’t expected it or seen it in years.
“Dora…” Zach intoned again. Dora walked in, moving as slow as her fear. The stubborn cloud of smoke bit at her eyes. Nothing had really changed except mounds of mess around the couch and her attempts at impressionist painting had disappeared off the grimy walls. But looking down, her high heel colliding into the slimy broth of a dark night’s drinking, she saw vomit outline Zach’s leg and foot.
“Oh my god, Zach,” Dora squeezed out with her shock, as she tried to get around his body to get to him, “not again, dammit.”
She leaned down at his head, as he rolled up his head and looked at her. Her face looked like wet black chalk against the cream ether, but he saw those eyes he once loved. “Yeaaah… again, dammmmmittttt.”
“This is not cleaning up and finding peace…”
“I know… I f-f-ef-fucked up again.”
The crispness of the curse made her recoil, as she looked behind her to sink into a dry spot by her favorite chair behind her. That spot knew her droop from before she left this place called home for 3 years.
“Dorraaa… I love you… I-I-I-reallllyyy lovvvve you.”
“No, you don’t, Zach,” she shot back, with hot tears burning, “This is not love, what you’re doing to yourself. Look at this place. You’ve sucked the life out of it!”
“D… I do love you,” he said with crust around his lips, picking himself up, to sit in the locus of his life, “love is water, it’s all over you.”
It’s all over you? Says the pontificating drunk!, Dora thought to herself.
“Don’t be a dick, you’re a mess right now.” She pulled out her mirror from her purse and lunged it into his face.
“Look! Is this love! How is this love! My man of three years is this!”
“Love is water, baby, it’s waaater,” Zach repeated as he tried to make out the fuzzy outlines of his sunken face, “When you go swimming and you jump in, the water is all over you, it covers every part of you, and it’s there while you’re in there, riiiiight?”
The coherence and pithy of the words struck her. She pulled back her arm. She felt a tap against a door of her heart.
“When you-you-you’re done, and you, uh, uhm, get out, the water falls off you, it leaves you, it leeeeaves you, it faaalls you, riight? You get out and you get a drink, I need a drink, you say I say to myself, and then you sit in the sun, until the whatever’s left on you is absorbed. Love is absorbed, until whatever’s left on you is absorbed.”
The tap grew into a mad banging, along with floods of rain against the windows, as she looked at him.
“I can’t do this again, Zach,” Dora said.
“Love is water… love is water,” Zach chants in a whisper, as he turns around and lays back so that his head is near her legs, as he looks up to stare at his morning sun.
Originally published at https://medium.com/@minademjan/love-is-water-2213c77074a9