Simple and yet powerful: 

عجبي على حرفين قد سلبا وقاري
حاء حريق وباء بت في ناري
ماذا جرى لي؟؟
نحول .. غيرة.. قلق.. سهر.. عذاب 
جنون هزّ أفكــاري

That’s probably the worst thing you really can do. Don’t say words you don’t mean, don’t make promises you can’t keep, don’t promise the world if you know you can’t offer a neighborhood, don’t make grand gestures and claim you’ll be someone’s forever, when you aren’t even being true to yourself, let alone others. Words have the power to make or break someone. And time- don’t waste people’s time. Don’t waste mine, when it’s all I have. You can’t get that back. 


Semester Over

I have been teaching at the Arab Open University (Kuwait Branch) for about two years. I was also teaching there while I was a PhD candidate. It was more like an internship at the time, I was doing it mainly for the experience, and I learned so much during that time. I am extremely grateful to those who believed in me, especially Dr. Chekra Allani, the Head of the English Department at the time. When I was first interviewed for the job, Dr. Chekra was very supportive. She said that she had found a “star” in the field, and all I wanted was to make her proud. I was finalizing my PhD thesis at the time, teaching Shakespeare to undergraduates who struggled with Shakespeare’s inaccessibility, and attempting to do a good job, leave a mark somehow. And I think I did. I have resigned from AOU, moving elsewhere, starting a new chapter.
But before I “move on”, and I don’t believe we ever really move on, I have to write this post. Over the last few days, I let my students know that I was leaving. As always, it is difficult to say goodbye to them, to end this chapter. This week, during one of my lectures, I lost my voice. We tend to overdo it when we lecture, as the material is dense, and should be covered within a limited time. By the end of the day, I was completely exhausted, essentially dead, and left voiceless. As some of my friends and colleagues know, I struggle with a chronic disability, Multiple Sclerosis (MS), and in general, my energy levels aren’t that great. Fatigue kicks in during the summer and heat aggravates my body, affecting even my ability to speak, to lecture. So on that particular day, I was exhausted, put my head down on my desk, and shed a tear or two. I felt like giving up, like I couldn’t keep doing this to myself, that it was too difficult to maintain a full-time job teaching. At the end of the semester, I am usually more than ready to hibernate forever.
And yet, it was only a day later, where my students sent me emails, tweets, messages, cards, everything you can think of – in which they expressed their gratitude, their appreciation, and how they have enjoyed the semester. I will always be grateful for this experience, this beautiful experience of working with amazing colleagues, and students who come to class because they really want an education, a second shot, a second chance at learning. A few students in particular will always stand out in my memory, and they were the ones who beautifully expressed these sentiments:



This writer really says it well:

“I can’t figure out what it is about you that keeps me around, either. I put 120 percent into the relationship, while you put in a mere 40 to 50 percent, on a good day. But I still stay hanging around.

I keep holding on. I keep telling myself things will get better, that you do care about me. I tell myself that you have a hard time showing affection. I tell myself that you show you care about me in different ways, even though I’m not entirely sure what those ways are. I keep twisting things in my head because I didn’t want to accept not having you in my life.” 
And that’s the worst part. When we make excuses for people who don’t trouble themselves to excuse their own behavior to us. The minute we start making excuses is the minute you have to stop and question what is happening, and whether this is the same person you valued so much. 


This is the month. This is the month we met, only so that you would start a revolution within me. Like all revolutions, it is glorified, made to look successful. But in fact, it is a massacre. The death of innocent people. The death of who I was. The death of who you were. I look at you and I can barely recall if you ever saw me as your anchor. 

And how ironic is it, that I waited for so long, waited for the yes, thinking we were longing for the same outcome. Now I know that hope dies last

Sometimes people can be doses of kindness, of innocence, of simplicity. There is a darkness that requires a nudge, a slight movement, a whisper of hope. The surprise was in the spontaneous knock on my door, the smiling eyes, the questions unasked. 

Dark chocolate has always been my favorite. White is too sweet. But the mixture I don’t mind, like everything in life, I have to alternate. The chocolates reminded me of this. It can’t always be one flavor. And I am grateful for the gentle reminder, the attempt of getting me to stand up again. Thank you, it was “purrfect.” 


The taste of raw honey in my mouth. Something I hadn’t tasted before. My expression must have been childlike because you laughed like I was the funniest person on earth. 

“Weird. Bitter,” I commented, shaking it off. But honey has lots of benefits and is good for you, I was informed. I guess you had read it somewhere. 

You would force me, every morning, to endure the taste. And a spoon of raw honey would remind me that this was still raw love. I didn’t realize but one day I was reaching for the jar on my own. That was the moment it hit me. The death of you. 


This is a post about reading and good friends. Or, at least, I think this is the aim of it. I can’t say yet. I am currently writing another book, and my good friend and colleague, Dr. Hend, is editing it. She will be writing the Editor’s note. So this has been an exciting project, but more about that later, or never.

Lately I have been immersed in deep thought, even more than my usual. As summer approaches, my energy levels tend to go down, the heat aggravates me, and my brain cells function slower than “normal.” With MS, we have a certain range of ability, and excessive fatigue tends to limit mobility even more. Naturally, this can be frustrating. And then there was the book. Not my book, which is still in its birthing process, but another book, a book that Hend gave me, after skimming through my poetry collection ‘On Love and Loss’ (available on Amazon) and the new book. Hend gave me an Arabic novel to read, and I remember carrying it around in my bag, buried amidst my exam papers, my Norton Anthology of American Literature, and green and red pens. The novel, which is called ‘Hepta’ or هيبتا has gained recognition and was a massive success upon its publication last year. Written by Egyptian author Mohammad Sadeq, Hepta revolves around a professor’s theory of love, love in its seven stages (which is what the word Hepta means in Ancient Greek, seven). The seven stages, as the professor Osama tells his students, are crucial for the lasting and evolving of a relationship. The stages include the beginning, the meeting, the relationship itself (honeymoon phase and madness phase), awareness phase, the truth/reality phase, the decision/judgement/choice phase, and finally Hepta, the ultimate fulfillment. I have translated the names of the stages, but I can’t do it justice.

Each chapter follows different protagonists’ and their choices, loves, and disappointments, disillusionment, and decisions. What touched me the most is one character’s journey, because I could relate to him. Like all great works of literature, the author managed to get me to say “hey, that’s just like me!” The character is unnamed, as all the characters are only given letters: A, B, C, D.

Basically, the character’s life changes immensely once he is diagnosed with a tumor at the age of 17, and he confesses his love to his high school classmate. She returns the “love” and quickly, the relationship becomes mixed with puppy love and pity love. He is left paralyzed, which changes the direction that the couple’s relationship takes. His girlfriend, being young, naive, and too innocent for a life-altering event, cannot handle it, and leaves. This is the “sad” part, but he soon realizes that love is not a need, and that people are not meant to be crutches. I won’t go into the interesting epiphanies he has, but the point is, as he evolves, so does his understanding of life and love. His disability features as part of the narrative, which was really nice to see, because most works of Arabic fiction are still hesitant to focus on a “disabled hero.”  As a Disability Studies scholar, I was on the lookout for different ideas of shame, cultural stereotypes about disability and normalcy. The character attempts to hide his disability, and does not voice it to his subsequent lovers, out of a fear of being judged, left behind. And that I can also relate to. Sometimes, people stop seeing past the disability, once it’s put out there. There is a massive fear or a crippling worry about what this disability means, how it can affect me, and if it will affect THEM (which is the funny and ironic part). From my experience, people are usually uncomfortable with disability and lack because they are not sure how to react, what they are meant to say, do, and what this means when dealing with me intimately or in a professional work environment. Ironically, I end up taking care of their fears, their lack of comfort, and try to put them at ease.

The novel’s ending left me completely shocked, and I won’t ruin it, but I picked up the phone and told Hend how much I loved it, and how grateful I was that she pushed me to read it. It was written in Arabic and colloquial Egyptian, which was extremely difficult for me to read, and I ended up having to read it out loud. I carried it with me today to work, to give it back to Hend, because I know, like most book lovers, we make sure that the book is returned in one piece. But Hend wouldn’t have it, and asked me to keep her copy. Her copy, with its notes, its highlighted passages- evidence that this is a novel that has touched her, and now it has been passed on to me, I folded its pages, and I am writing this post about it. Sometimes it takes a friend (Dr. Hend) and another friend (Hepta) to make you think about how literature still saves lives. The book made me think there are still many undiscovered phases of life and love, and many different selves of mine that I haven’t found yet.

Below: from the text itself.    


The past few days have been unusually difficult. Getting out of bed, making it through another day has been sort of a hassle. I don’t mean to dwell on this. But, the point of the post, I was asked to speak about what it feels to love, and to be in love, and to be confined at the same time. To be stuck. To be stuck in a body. To be stuck in space. To be disconnected. This was a very experimental type of performance, no real style, and the audience was very open and receptive. I worked with a wonderful Yoga instructor and dancer, and she felt that the words resonated within her. I did it for fun, mostly. And I chose the words that were mainly about you.

Sometimes, I think the words bring us closer. Sometimes, I think the words can reach you. Do you still believe? I want to know.