I have always been critical of this blog and my writings in general. I might sound to people that I believe in everything I say here, and strongly. I think the arguments I post here are the closer version of what I have in mind.
I still believe in the opinions I shared on this blog, but the approaches to arriving to these opinions are changing constantly. Things are getting more complicated for me lately and I cannot seem to know how to use language to articulate these struggles I am going through while thinking of a certain problem.
Writing anxiety is something common among writers and bloggers, but some manage to get past it over the years but others don’t. In my case, the older I grew the more I find it hard to write.
I’m here to participate in a conference, I arrived today and here I am enjoying one of Antalya’s cafes by the sea. The local beer is good. The waitress is hot, very short hair, the way she walks, she’s avoiding eye contact, she’s shy maybe.
Turkish women are incredibly beautiful, it’s kind of scary. And they know it.
I have a workshop to facilitate the day after tomorrow and I am still confused about what exactly I want to say.
Anyalya is so beautiful, it reminded me a bit of Homs, small city, organized buildings, wide streets, except you can see women in the streets.
I’ve seen a lot of mothers in this cafe, maybe because it has a children section. One girl fell and she started shouting in Turkish, she started crying when her mother saw her falling down, I think she was saying: “it hurts! it hurts!”.
I like the waitress. I like Antalya. Thank god we’re not in Istanbul, I hated that city very much. It was designed for tourists, Antalya is tourist- friendly but I love how nobody here speaks English. I am using weird body language to communicate, and people find it amusing. Nice people, people of Antalya.
I hated their airport though, I had a fight with them, their security check is humiliating, and everybody was obsessed about my hat, like I am hiding a bomb there or something. Assholes.
I thought the plane was going to crash, actually I was prepared to die. The captain was funny, the plan would move on and on on the side, and there was a moment when the plane moved fast that I thought this is it, I am going to fall on the sea, I am going to stop breathing as I am falling from the sky and onto the sea. I won’t be able to shout cause the scene is so scary. people are shouting around me. If I ever make it alive in the sea, I thought, I am going to save the children and the baby cat. The cat’s owner is one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in my life. Dark skin, fair hair, green eyes. Amazing body, but I won’t save her, I am sorry but I am more sympathetic with children and animals than pretty bodies.
I think the Asians at our plane were Japanese, and I was to say to them “Baka”. But a couple of them were whispering about the Hezbolla sign I attached to my backpack. What a turn off.
So yeah, dying, been thinking a lot about death than usual lately. Isn’t amazing, that one of humanity’s biggest fears is death, yet I am fantasizing about it on my way to a nice gathering?
I know why I like death, and why suicide is an interesting concept. I hope I can explain my thoughts about it one day.
I can’t believe I am writing again on this stupid blog.
Anyways, gotta start preparing for my workshop. Jana!
We can buy Almaza and get to your uncle’s place while he’s having his Argileh with his friends outdoors.
We can buy some of the Armenian nuts you like.
We can sit next to each other on the Sofa.
We can get nervous.
We can allow silence to be so loud.
This is it.
We can turn Valentine into a sacred sin.
Would you break the law with me?
We can wait till we finish our first bottle.
We can forget about your tomorrow and mine.
You can let me start right here and now.
Katyushas have been through a lot. They used to live in peace before certain kinds of human beings decided they want to invade their lands. Suddenly, a new reality was imposed on them. They chose to fight and not to give in. It’s both, a human and animal instinct, to fight and not to give in-(well till modernism came and told indigenous species that they should fight the foreigner “peacefully”).
But Katyushas came up with primitive yet creative tactics to survive and protect themselves and their families from the occupiers. They sticked together, and fought back. They tried to survive in a system that does not acknowledge their right to be on their lands, that this land is no longer theirs.
Many Katyushas died as they were fighting the enemy and the system. We call them martyrs.
I found one of those Katyushas the other night in the street, he is tiny but strong. I brought him home where our bougie cat, Klio, was trying for the past seven days to stick his penis in Katyusha’s ass. Katyushas as fighters, don’t let no bougie or other, to abuse them. Katyusha knew how to fight back and teach bougie cats the difference between a fighter and a conformist. Klio never stopped trying. Katyusha’s battle with the system isn’t over yet, and he knows it’s a long way for liberation, and it won’t be nice.
Katyushas instinctively learned how to resist because only them experienced the oppressive system. and only them know how to defy it.
Katyusha in my house, and I am totally OK with it. hoping another form of Katyusha finds its way to my home soon.
Ever since my “teenage-hood” days, I followed the assumption that befriending writers, filmmakers, sculptures and those who’re interested in arts and revolutionary books are necessarily people with free minds, and hence, are people who won’t disrespect me as a female or the way I chose to live my life. I was not only wrong, I was also simplistic.
Today, large number of these people who used to be my friends have become/are becoming my enemies, for they, as the masses, they begin their sentences with the same line a lot of sexist people do: “A woman should/shouldn’t be/do bla bla bla….”.
First I want to give you examples of how liberal women and men prove to be sexists as they’re trying to be free from “conservative” values. Some of these people consider themselves feminists, progressives, thinkers, and activists, pro women and LGTBQ rights.
Why oh why, I don’t care about you, Syria.
I don’t. I sincerely don’t. About its men, women, gay or straight people. its submissive or its courageous people. Its prisoners of conscience or its enemies or its leaders. I don’t understand what is it exactly I feel about you. I mean I don’t really hate you, obviously I don’t like you, but why do I follow your news so much? why do I feel excited when my reader mentions your name? like hey, I know this place better than I know any other place on this planet. Like I have the feeling, that because I know a lot about you, I have this illusion that I care about you, or even that we are related. But see, we’re not related. See here at this very point that I just wrote, I wrote so many sentences then I deleted them. Not because I want my sentences to consist with each other and actually make sense to the readers, but rather, I don’t think I am writing what I truly feel. I really don’t know how I feel about this space called Syria.
1-I want to be a reader.
2-I want to be a writer.
3-I want to make one documentary and couple short movies.
4-I want to spend my life drawing cartoons and animate them for Arab-speaking children.
5-I want to live in a farm in a village someday.
6-I want to stop using the internet and communicate with people by writing letters instead.
7-I want to go home with my bike.
8-I want to go to occupied Golan.
9-I can’t lose the child in me.