Wanting to...

There are so many things I want to do.

I want to walk into an all-male cafe (here in Jeddah) and join the white thobes and shimags, al fresco.

I want to go deep into the desert, meet the locals, and have decent conversations with them.

I want to drive a truck.

I want to meet a never-ending stream of people, have them pass me by and say hello, and then wave goodbye, to meet again.

I want to walk barefoot along the beach and chicken-dance against the sunset.

I want to take funny-bunny-ear photos of my inamorata, my fair-haired boy, my Romeo.

*Wanting, but wiser.*

Flatteration

It’s always nice to hear people say something nice to you, or about you. The past weekend must’ve been National Say-Something-Nice-About-Nessreen Weekend; even my friends would agree. Everyone said at least one nice thing about me. Plus, Majed called me twice in one day (he’s in Germany).

***

We finally met Sharifah’s Khaled. I can imagine how he must’ve felt; having to go through meeting all of us Shari’s friends on top of trying to impress her family. But, like we told him, he was pre-approved. He just garnered additional points for being such a darling, and for giving the most sensible piece of advice we’ve ever heard:

“If it doesn’t feel right, don’t do it.”

Although the advice was directed at Nadia, who’d wanted to try smoking for the first time at age 25, we all agreed it applies to everything else in life.

***

There was a “Fudgy Bum” incident, where Summer (the most practical, un-cluttered person in our clique) and I (the most scatter-brained) got some chocolate fudge all over our abayas in the car. What baffled everyone was how I got the chocolate in my bum. Aunt Debbie had to flip me over and wipe my rear end with moisturized tissue, all the while tsk-tsking me, ‘naughty, naughty girl’. Sure enough, everyone concluded that my klutziness is contagious, and Summer caught it. And now, we are Fudgy Bum Sisters.

We ARE a homogenous group.

Girls of Summer

We had fun today. The huge slices of cake they have over at Mugg & Bean are unbelievable. It was Summer's 23rd ermm... summer. We hid behind a wall and half-screamed "Surprise!!" as she came into the restaurant. We knew she knew we knew she knew about the surprise party. Don't you hate when that happens? Everything's half-hearted afterwards.

*********
The problem with truth is that... it's much too simple. Sometimes, [actually, most of the time], I feel the need to embellish the things I say. Like looking at life through rose-tinted glasses. Otherwise, all our little phone conversations would be dull. But I'm always afraid I might turn into a minstrel.

Imagine if you died. Right now. People would go through your personal effects. Your family and friends would be thrown together, discussing your life and times. What are the things you wouldn't want them to suddenly discover about you?

*********
It'll be a busy weekend, for sure. But I'm broke. I'm going out with my large group of friends on Thursday for a little Karaoke affair, Saudi-style. I'm going out with a friend on the weeknights to some cafe or other, to discuss the future and whatever's wrong with me. I'm going to not spend money because... I don't HAVE any money. I wonder...

Music And Words

"Singing along to feeling-alright.."
- Hanson


Why Don't You & I
Carlos Santana

Since the moment I spotted you
Like walking round with little wings on my shoes
My stomach's filled with the butterflies
Ooh and it's alright
Bouncing round from cloud to cloud
I got the feeling like I'm never gonna come down
If I said I didn't like it then you know I lied..

Everytime I try to talk to you
I get tongue-tied
Turns out everything I say to you
Comes out wrong and never comes out right

So I'll say why don't you and I get together
and take on the world and be together forever
Heads we will and tails we'll try again
So I say why don't you and I hold each other
and fly to the moon and straight on to heaven
Cause without you they're never going to let me in

When's this fever going to break?
I think I've handled more than any man can take
I'm like a love-sick puppy chasing you around
Ooh and it's alright
Bouncing round from cloud to cloud
I got the feeling like I'm never gonna come down
If said I didn't like it then you know I lied...

Slowly I begin to realize this is never gonna end
Right about the same time you walk by
And I say 'Oh here we go again'


(There's Got To Be) More To Life
Stacey Orrico

I've got it all,
but I feel so deprived
I go up,
I come down
and I'm emptier inside

Tell me what is this thing
that I feel like I'm missing
And why can't I let go

There's gotta be more to life
Than chasing down every temporary high
to satisfy me
Cause the more that I'm
Tripping out thinking there must be more to life
Well it's life, but I'm sure
there's gotta be more
Than wanting more..

I've got the time
and I'm wasting it slowly
Here in this moment
I'm half way out the door
Onto the next thing,
I'm searching for something that's
missing..

GOOOOAAAAALLLL!!

Last Monday, a group of friends and I went to the Serafi Megamall to watch the football match between Saudi Arabia and Ukraine. The In-10-So Family Recreation Center on the top floor had set up this huge screen by the bowling alleys for families to watch. The place was packed to the hilt, and, as was expected, filled with young boys and men in full green-and-white regalia: hats, shirts, face-paint, masks, flags, the works. We weren't really keen on watching the game; we were just glad to have an excuse to hang out after a strenuous day at work. But, unexpectedly, we got caught up in the Saudi spirit and impulsively painted our faces. It was hilarious because:

a) Half of us weren't Saudi at all; well, I was the only southeast Asian in the group, the rest were Arab-Westerners.

b) We attracted a lot of attention, being the only group of grown-ass women in hijab with face-paint.

c) Saudi lost to Ukraine 4-o. There was a man behind the counter of the Shawarma place we ordered food from who smugly pointed that out to us in a crooked English accent: "Madam, Saudi lost, no?" [No, Duh?]

d) We were hounded by the MBC paparazzi. A photographer for the leading Arab newspaper Al-Hayat approached us several times during and after the game, offering to publish our photos on the newspaper. We unwaveringly refused to have our pictures taken, quickly covering our faces whenever he aimed the offending Nikon. [Hypocrites!! LOL!!]

e) We were also approached by a couple of young Saudi men in thobes who claimed to be photographers of some fake magazine, while they held up their mobile-phone cameras. LOL! [Pervs!!]

f) There we were, 8 women in full hijab, speaking loudly in English and occasionally switching to Saudi Arabic, walking around the mall, totally asking for it.

To be perfectly honest, the attention was unwanted, but not completely un-enjoyed. We're chalking this one up to experience. It's definitely not something women do (or should do) in Jeddah, and yet we did it, and we were meted out with that amusing tolerance that locals reserve for quasi-foreigners.




I was loathe to scrub off the face paint long after I'd arrived home. On top of that, Sally did my eyes, and I loved it. I don't know what the point of this photo is.














It was a fun evening. Totally inappropriate, but that's what made it fun.




Here is Abdullah, the cutest little Saudi-American I know. He loves sneaking up on me during picture-taking sessions and giving me bunny ears. What he loves even more is rummaging through our tote bags and confiscating our packs of cigarettes and declaring, "I don't want you to die!!"





And there's my silly friend Suzann, who'd kill me as soon as she sees I posted her photo.



Go, Saudiyyah groupies!!












More where those came from!

The Cup Of Life

It's the World Cup frenzy all over again. Wherever you go in Jeddah, you will see throngs of young men and boys with faces painted green and white to show support for the Saudi team. Family recreation centers are packed full of avid football fans; watching the games on the huge screens set up especially for the Series.

I'm not much of a soccer fan myself. What does soccer mean to me? Let's see:

* Ricky Martin singing The Cup Of Life [Ole! Ole! Ole!] years ago.
* University days, when I, along with an equally clueless girlfriend, would watch The Hot Soccer Players at the Sunken Garden while they stretch and warm up.
* The heavily moisturized, manicured, facial-ed, quasi-gay David Beckham.
* A bunch of testosterone-laden blokes running around a huge field.
* Jeddah's black-and-yellow Ittihad Football Club and their catchy theme song.

Last week, Majed attempted to explain to me how the game works. Not surprisingly enough, 20 minutes into the "lesson", I was still clueless. Red cards, yellow cards, technical fouls, kickoffs, whathaveyous. I could only care about that singular hot-hot-hottie with the long hair and muscular legs. I don't even remember what team he played for.

Nevertheless, my friends and I are going to watch the next Saudi game against Ukraine, and hopefully, I can pretend to be interested long enough to scream enthusiastically when our team scores. I have to admit, the festive air is infectious.

I hope Saudi wins, if only to experience once again the chaos on the streets as the "shabab" run around the streets honking their honks and tonking their tonks ecstatically. I haven't seen that in years.

Fashion Passion

Fashion in Jeddah is as contradictory as it gets. Everyone wears the same clothes, look the same, and yet not. "Thobes" and "abayas" may all look alike, but upon closer inspection, there ARE differences. You can tell a person's social status just by looking at his/her outer clothing, just like everywhere else.

It's when you live in a place like Jeddah that you realize what a struggle it is to express oneself through fashion or general appearance. Driving down Sitteen Street, I watched as a teenaged boy walked the "limp", a red handkerchief knotted at the top wrapped around his head, and a contrived look of boredom on his face. I imagine how much courage he'd had to muster to pull off that look.


I always delight in seeing someone expressing himself. Even when it's in something as judgemental as fashion.

************************************************

Earlier tonight, we had dinner at Friday's where Sharifah celebrated her 25th birthday. I finally met Sally's sister Sara, who shares a birthday with me, and who looks so much like Thalia [of Rosalinda fame] that it's shocking.

I'm two weeks into my walking regimen, and I don't see any changes. Dagnamit.

Fight Club

Some months ago, I had to come between my two younger brothers as they scuffled in the middle of the night. As I sat there, trying my best to be just and reasonable, I attempted to count the number of times I've had to pull my brothers apart when they were in the middle of one of their infamous brawls.

All those times I doubted myself and my negotiation skills were unwarranted. I've honed the ability to settle fights down to an art from having so many brothers.

See, I make them out in pairs: two from each generation. There's Omar and Amir, Waleed and Zen, Adnan and Pollock, and finally, Ayman and Othman. These pairs stick together; they rarely start fights with members of another pair.

My sister and I are different in our tactics. Worlds apart, in fact. She'd always believed in the power of touch, love, and sweet words. She settled conflicts with her soothing voice, singing us calm. I, on the other hand, am more street - uncultured, threatening, berating, scolding.

I wash them with detergent soap and my sister pours fabric conditioner over them. I iron them out aggressively, and she lovingly folds them or hangs them up in padded hangers.

We are the SWAT team. Teamed up, we make a formiddable pair. And I think it's very fortunate that she and I don't squabble.

I love my siblings. I remember a time when I couldn't imagine ever sharing them with other people. The first time one of them entered a serious relationship, I was devastated. Growing up, we laughed together, and fought together. It was almost like an exclusive club we belonged to, impenetrable, inaccessible to outsiders.

It's tough, realizing that we have to move in different directions now, go our own separate ways.

Bowling Down The House

I have always stayed away from bowling. Probably because I find it disgusting to have to wear bowling shoes. Maybe because I was afraid I would totally suck at it [the way I felt before I'd even tried playing pool]. Apparently, those fears were unfounded.

Coz tonight at the Skydiving Center along Hera'a, I totally KICKED ASS.

















Oh, yes, people, I have to go on and on about it. That's me at Number 2 with all those yellow triangles that my friends call "strike". Talk about beginner's luck.

I played with Abdullah and Ibrahim, and we kicked the other team's ass.

And I have to reiterate, that's me with all the triangles. WOO-HOO!!

Johari Window

Please click on the following link if you have nothing else to do.

http://kevan.org/johari?name=nessreen

The Saddest Thing

This has to be the saddest email I've received my entire life.

I miss you so much, Nhuraphy.

Date: Sun, 16 Apr 2006 03:43:00 +0000
To: hamlet_ness@yahoo.com
From: "Birthday Reminder" <Service@BirthdayAlarm.com> Add to Address Book Add Mobile Alert
Subject: First Reminder for Nhuraphy Magarang's Birthday on Sunday April 23rd

Nessreen

Nhuraphy Magarang's (hardcore_nhurzy@yahoo.com) birthday is on Sunday April 23rd. Nhuraphy will be 24 years old.

Click below to choose an eCard and we will send it on Nhuraphy's birthday...
http://www.BirthdayAlarm.com/eCard/129163884a1b194764443c23285808

Kind Regards,

BirthdayAlarm.com

Former Fuzzy Feeling

Here's a fond memory:

One evening, Yahya's mom Tita Irene took us to one of the condominium units the boys and I signed up to "agent" for [i.e. we sold them and earned a percentage]. We were in it for what little percentage we just might earn, but mostly, too, for the free dinners that almost always follows every "trip", and the extra time we could all spend monkeying around. That night, it was Yamani, Jill, Xaviere, Rommel, Yahya's sister Camille, and possibly even Bart, and myself. Yahya was out at a bar along Timog Avenue for a high school reunion. Tita Irene decided it would be fun to play a joke on him by calling him up on his mobile and threatening to crash the party, her, Yahya's Dad, and the whole lot of us. We'd parked outside the bar and made silly jokes heavy with half-truths and connotation, and sure enough, 15 minutes later, Yahya comes out of the bar, mobile in hand, pretending to be pissed but actually looking rather pleased about the attention we were all showering on him. I remember how close we'd all become then, that we had actually communicated through looks alone. We had a look that said, "Don't say nothing stupid now, the old folks are here". Another one said, "Let's pretend we're all going home after this and then meet up at Sarah's afterwards." There was also the classic, "We'll laugh about this later when no one else is listening." Sure, we said some things out loud, but we would continue the conversation in silence, or much later in the night at Sarah's little drinking place, or on a 5-hour phone conversation. I remember basking in their spoiling attention, how Tita Irene always reserved the front seat of her car for me in each trip, how nice she was.

When I recall moments like this, I think of winter-time. I love winter. The contemplation. The cold. The warm moments seem more pronounced in winter. The overall cozy feeling that seeps through me, like a huge, fragrant blanket around my shoulders. It reminds me of my good friends, like Alfie, and my first trip to Marawi City, our hang-out time with other good friends.

That former fuzzy feeling. Like coffee on a cold, cold day.

Just a day after that night rushed back to me, I got a phone call from Yahya. It was good to hear from him again after so long, my good, good friend Yahys. We hadn't talked in almost a year. We've been reduced to smatterings here and there, each one heading to a different direction. I wonder if we'll all stay friends; if, when things change, I'd be the same person they claimed to love having around.

The Sea

When I see the sea once more
















Will the sea have seen

Or not seen me?

The Fabulous Englishman

I've just had one of the more excellent experiences reading in that book by Robert McCrum called The Fabulous Englishman. My fascination, as per usual, is with the way writers like him weave their words to create beautiful language, their keen and accurate observations. This book has been very real, down to the last paragraph. Sometimes, we like - and expect - things to be black and white, forgetting all the gray areas in between. And we always manage to look shocked in the end. At least I know I do.

The other nice thing about this book is what little I've learned about (former) Czechoslovakia and the Prague Spring (revolution). It also led me to read on Franz Kafka and get a grasp of communism, fascism, and activism, all gray areas to me. I am now basking in the exhilaration of enlightenment. Politics and socialism are two subjects I can't even bluff about.

Clearly, I'm not cut out to be a fighter, an activist, a believer if you will.

Things I fiercely believe in:

God
Fear
Luxury
Certain Death
Deception
Change

Does it embarrass me that my intellect is, after all, skin-deep? Yes. But more than that, it makes me sad. I feel empty inside. There must be something meaningful, something I would live for, something bigger than myself and my trivial flights of fancy that I'd be willing to fight for. There must be something in there, something for humanity, some compassion, or a speck of motivation so I don't waste my time, my youth on purely selfish interests, on fashion, scandal, drama, empty entertainment, self-pity, resentment.

I'd like very much to hear the music of Plastic People of the Universe. They sound very intelligent. "Hundred Per Cent" seems like a testament to that genius.

10 things I'm afraid of:
1. I am afraid of rejection.
2. I am afraid of old age.
3. I am afraid of motherhood.
4. I am afraid of commitment and responsibility.
5. I am afraid of physical pain.
6. I am afraid of bodies-of-water.
7. I am afraid of the past.
8. I am afraid of obscurity.
9. I am afraid of punishment.
10. I am afraid of monotony.

"So why are you afraid of me?"

Memoirs

1. Are you currently mad at someone?
>> I am perpetually mad at someone. It's my nature to blame other people for my screw-ups. Lately, I've been raving mad at my friend, the Elusive One. Through no fault of his, might I add, I hate that he's been generally scarce. I want only undivided attention, a luxury I indulge in a little too much, especially when I can't afford it.

2. Which of your friends has the worst temper?
>> I have to say Micks. Who can forget the one time he picked a fight with a guy at a billiards hall for looking at my shirt? Granted, it was a white shirt I had on, but he was allegedly staring at the captivating buttons that adorned the top of said shirt, and we all know what a serious offence that is, staring at buttons.

3. Have you ever thrown something at anyone?
>> I was fifteen years old, and I threw a bottle of perfume at someone who dared to give me a fragrance seemingly made for nanogenarians. It was an expression of outrage for being stereotyped as such, and I never forgot how the bottle hit the floor and broke into a million, tiny pieces. The perfume stayed for a week. The stereotyping stayed on longer.

4. Does your face turn red when you're angry?
>> My face turns red only when I'm caught lying, or when I can feel the person I'm lying to seeing through the intricate web I've spun. When I'm angry, I turn deathly pale.

5. When you're mad do you prefer to stare angrilyor yell/scream?
>> I prefer to stay passive until hours later, when I've calmed down and have a hundred and one thoughts of how I should've reacted. Maybe a clever comeback that should've stunned my opponent to silence. Maybe a swift sweep of my hand before I snap my fingers and cock my head. I'm such a wimp.

6. Has anyone ever thrown you a suprise party?
>> The year I turned eighteen, my uncle, his wife, and his children snuck into my bedroom at midnight with a huge chocolate cake and a birthday card. With my eyes watering and my heart in my throat, I gazed intently at the eighteen candles while they sang the birthday song [not the 50 Cent version, mind you]. We don't celebrate birthdays, but the gesture touched me nonetheless, as it felt like a first birthday.

7. Are you easily excited?
>> You have no idea how easily. My private student cancelled two weeks worth of classes, leaving me with more time to lie in my bed, stare at the ceiling, and complain about how little time I have on my hands till I fall asleep. I chicken-danced my way out of the office.

8. What event is coming up that your most excited about?
>> Next week, I just might draw up enough courage to come face-to-face with my worst nightmare to date. I'm excited about the inevitable downhill motion from there on.

9. Which of your friends is most exciteable?
>> Maybe Suzan, with the sweet, child-like disposition. She remains untouched by our general air of cynicism.

10. If you won a million dollars what would be your first thought?
>> "NOW can I afford a country?" A million dollars would be perfect, but obviously unattainable, like all perfect things. My secret list of things to buy will remain a secret till the day I die.

11. If you could have anything right now what would it be?
>> Weight loss. Oi vei.

13. What was your latest dream?
>> Last night, I dreamt that one of my friends' son passed on. It was a sad, sad dream, and my friend was squirming with agony at the pain of losing her sweet, sweet 8-year-old. I can't for the life of me fathom what brought on that dream. In it, she clutched her belly and said, "Only a mother would understand."

15. Do you usually remember your dreams?
>> I have trouble remembering the last person I talked to, much less my last dream. So I keep a little notebook by my bed, for the mornings I wake up breathless from an intense dream, and I furiously scribble it all down.

"If I write it, I don't have to remember it. I write to forget." - John DuFresne

6 Easy Steps...

"Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast." - William Shakespeare

Being a Muslim is most difficult when we are young. In fact, being religious in ANY faith is most difficult at this time. Temptations abound, and we are still so lost, insecure of ourselves, still searching for something concrete to hold on to. But discovering our religion and all the good things we can learn from it is one of the best things we can find when we are young.

I'm not saying that I'm a good Muslim. But I know that I'm better now than I used to be. I realize now that faith cannot be forced. The more we are forced to do something, the more we rebel against it. It's one of the things that we can only achieve in our own time by taking small steps, slowly and surely. A little like losing weight, or growing up.

"New Age Muslims" are a new breed, mainly because of the issues that we grapple with. We have any number of bad habits that are so hard to get rid of, habits that we know are wrong and destructive to us, not only as Muslims, but as human beings. Our elders reprimand us, chastise us, scold us, but all we can think of is: "Man, you wouldn't understand." We are carefree, we LOVE not caring. But what happens afterwards?

When the party's over, after the friends have gone and the music has died down, you are left to yourself feeling empty, and robbed of something... something you don't even know you had. And then you realize it is your faith that you've lost. There is nothing else to hold on to.

When I was going through the same phase, I was panic-stricken. I didn't know who else to turn to. My parents didn't need the stress, my sister had enough on her plate, my friends were just as lost, and my brothers were just starting their own phases. I had only myself, and my trips to the bookstore, eyes going over the titles of self-help books I was embarrassed to be found browsing. Where is "7 Effective Habits of Spiritually Successful Muslims"? "Chicken Soup for the Muslim Soul"? Nowhere.

We don't really need self-help books. We just need to stop for a bit and think. And maybe have a little checklist.

1. Learn what you can about your religion. Islam teaches beautiful values. Every act of worship has a healing touch. Read books. Read the Qur'an.

2. Make friends with Muslims your age, people who are going through the same things as you. They are great sounding-boards, and you can discuss every issue without fear of admonition.

3. Apply what you have learned. Try it on for size.

4. Worship. Prayer is an exhilirating experience.

5. Be generous to people less fortunate than yourself. Kindness is preached in Islam. It cleanses your big-spending, credit-card-maxxing, partying soul.

6. Don't be afraid to ask questions. Inquiry is always good.

Well, I think I've succeeded in sounding like an inarticulate Dr. Phil, so I hope I succeed in following my own advice. What a lot of us don't know is that there are degrees to being a Muslim. Like university, there are pre-requisites. We can't just jump on to the last level. We need to learn and earn.

Yay, self-help!

Salaam.

Who's Your Aunt?!

Like Kate Hudson's character Helen in Raising Helen, I far too often suffer from the Cool Aunt Syndrome, a condition that occurs when a young niece, nephew, or cousin looks up to me and then things go wrong. Yeah, I'm the cool "Aunt". They can hang out with me because I know a lot of things; they can talk to me about anything and I'd understand. I don't think their thoughts or convictions are immature, childish, or plain stupid. I'm like that because I went through the same thoughts not so long ago. I have a cool sense of humor. I have a problem with authority, just like they do. I don't discourage adolescent rebellion, like their old aunts do. They can smoke around me, with me, in fact. I have all these fascinating stories about my silly, daring adventures and how I got away with them. I give them the rules in a firm voice, and in the next instant, whisper about how I hate the rules. Rules, like propriety [whispering: oh, f*ck propriety, you shouldn't care what people think about you], or the straight path [sod it, you should take the road less travelled]. I'm fun like that. They can talk to me about pre-marital sex, marijuana, getting drunk, flirting, college, pick-up lines. Whatever. Plus, I'm such a cool aunt, I even have my own money, so when they're short on cash, they can come up to me and ask for a few bucks to buy a pack of cigarettes. I can even buy them a few drinks. So, who's your Aunt?!!

Say my name, bitch!

And then... They come to me with a fake ID. Crying, coz they flunked an exam. I would understand, they were out on a party late last night, on to the early morn ["Oh, Aunt Di, it was SO fun, the DJ flirted with me"]. Crying, coz they're having chest pains from all that smoking ["But that's normal, right, Aunt Di? You get chest pains, too, don't you?"]. Crying, coz their moms found a packet of cigarettes in their jean's pockets ["Aunt Di, I told Momma it was yours. Phew. Close one, eh?"]. Crying, coz everyone's talking about them being wild, loose women ["Aunt Di, it wasn't as if I was making out with him! We were just hanging out in his car!"]. Crying, coz shit, Aunt Di, I'm 5 weeks late... I think I'm pregnant. What do I do? Will you tell my Dad, Aunt Di? He'll kill me!

Dagnamit! Who's your Aunt, now?

Once the Cool-Aunt wheels start turning, there's no stopping it. I wish I could run to my own former Cool Aunt. Where do we cool Aunts toe the line?

Waxing Nostalgic

It's amazing the things we take for granted. Like the outdoors in the early morning. The sea breeze in your face. The beautiful sunrise and the blue, blue sky. The magnificence of all God's creatures and the harmony they exist in. Everything feels like a well-oiled machine.
















I am undone.





Simple things make me smile. The kid in nothing but swimming shorts shaking off the pool water from his ear, hopping on one leg. The young man on the other side enjoying the morning air, walking with one hand in his pocket and the other holding a cup of coffee. The bare-chested guy jogging along the stretch of sand. I wonder what lives they lead. I wonder what they're thinking.




The beach is lovely. I imagine spending time there in the company of the people I love. My brothers. Zen would be fussing about food. Waleed would be barking out orders. Adnan would be contemplative and melancholy, nursing a cigarette. Pollock would be monkeying around. And I, I would be flitting here and there, longing to be alone with my pen and paper. My friends. Jiehan would be in her best beach-wear, gazing out into the sea, hand holding her wide-rimmed hat against her head, thinking about God-knows-what. Marj would be preparing to do something worthwhile, jetskiing maybe, or surfing. My sister. She would be laughing, happy, carefree, trying her best to make it all fun for us. My boys. Da Boys would be doing all the dirty work, spoiling me senseless. They'd be making jokes and fronting, poking fun at my "good breeding" [what am I, a dog?].

Until I get a chance to travel elsewhere, I will continue to compare everything I encounter to Manila. It's jarring, to be suddenly removed from a city where I can be as daring as I dared to be and put in a place where the mere glimpse of an uncovered neck or a smooth ankle attracts attention. Young people here grasp at every little chance to have a semblance of social interaction. Like myself. I hold on to the very thought of him. He is my former bustling social life, my brothers, cousins, friends, acquaintances, college buddies, neighbors, boys and girls, all rolled into one. He represents all that I am missing. It's funny, because I don't even know him. I made him.

My Kind of Guy

1. The tagged victim has to come up with 8 different points of their perfect lover.
2. Need to mention the sex of the target.
3. Tag 8 victims to join this game & leave a comment on their comments saying they've been tagged.
4. If tagged the 2nd time, there's no need to post again.

Target: Male

Points:

1. Must be from Saudi Arabia [negotiable] and Muslim [non-negotiable].

2. Must love food and luxury [i.e. must afford it - slash - reasonably loaded]
I mean, like Kanye says:
"I ain't sayin she a gold-digger,
But she ain't messin with no broke nigga."
And I ain't sayin I like Kanye,
But I guess because I quoted him I kinda do.

3. Must have a good musical background [i.e. in touch with his inner artiste, if at all any.]
And I'm not talking about "Yeah, I like hiphop, Nelly's Dilemma was DA BOMB, niggah" kind of white-guy small-p*nis talk.

4. Must be street [if you know what I mean].

5. Must NOT be too open with his feelings. Smiley dolts are just that - dolts. I mean, a little mystery's good, but nothing creepy.

6. Must be tall [and superficial, too].

7. Must be a smoker [i.e. risk-taker].

8. Must be good at something I would NEVER be good at [i.e. Nessreen's Respect-Maintenance Insurance Policy. I tend to be over-confident, and this is a good thing to hit my head with].

I was tagged by Diane, and I'm tagging anyone who's reading this.

Will Say A Little Prayer

I'm all geared up for Hajj this year. Nadeemah's remark struck a chord.

"What are you doing now that's so bad, anyway?"

And she's right. It's not like we're sleeping around, or drinking [anymore]. But she doesn't know us, doesn't know half of it, like Dina and I were saying. It's all those little things -- flirting, smoking, music, the other worldly distractions that we all can't seem to let go of. So when we say "We're not that ready", we're not talking about promiscuity, or intoxication, or adultery. Just the basest forms of worldliness.

But then again, like Majed and I were discussing, if we're not ready now, when we're young and fully able, when will we be? More importantly, will we EVER be?

The biggest Hajj truism is:
"I'll go when I'm older and all the wiser [read: when all those worldly desires cease to matter]."

And the question is this:
"WHEN exactly are you OLDER?"

When we're 17, 27 is older. When you turn 27, you think, "Hell, I'm still young. 37 is older." Come 37, would you admit you're older? Of course not. 47 becomes the new old. You hit 47 and you say, 57 is DEFINITELY old. So on and so forth, till you reach the point of no-getting-younger, and the next ten years [or less, who knows], you're past Older and well within Dying. And you're no longer young nor fully able.

If not now, when?

There are a lot of things and people I will be praying for. Khadijah said I should prepare the list, have my cheat sheet ready, and go for it the whole time I spend in Arafat. Sounds like a plan. Off the top of my head:

1. Will pray for a stable financial status for myself and my family. [Surprisingly, money matters spring to mind. LOL.] Will pray for the ability to be thankful for what I have, for the ability to manage my finances in the smartest, and cleanest way possible. Must start paying my Zakah dues, and personal debts.

2. Will pray for the guidance that I and each of my siblings need. Will pray for religion and faith to enter our hearts, for the awareness of God, and for knowledge of ISLAM. Will pray for the success of each of my siblings, for love to dwell between us, and for all animosity to be removed.

3. Will pray for Mum and Pop, for their physical health and their spiritual well-being. Will pray for their peace of mind. Will pray for any resentment they have, between themselves and for their children, to be erased.

4. Will pray for a good future, for a stable sense of self, for insecurity to disappear from my system. Will pray for a good partner [INEVITABLE, I realize. Ha ha.]. Will pray for acceptance -- of myself FOR myself, and of others for myself. Will pray for respect and self-respect, for knowledge and travel.

5. Will pray for my extended family. For Daddy and his people, who have been good to me. Will pray for those who share a family name with me, for many good returns for them. Will pray for my maternal cousins and aunts, for them to be more forgiving, considerate, and ultimately, more blessed and successful for it.

6. Will pray for my friends. For Marj and her family, for their continued appreciation of my religion, their respect and love for me. Will pray for my new friends, who have opened new and wonderful doors for me. Will pray for their well-being and that of their families, and for the success of their affairs. Will pray for Mariam Guilbeaut, Lutfah, WadhHa, Inas, Sausan, Sara, Khadijah [and Mazen, too, I guess, our little inside joke], Mariam France, the Ghamdi sisters, Nadia, and Nadeema. For Khala Zahrah especially. For Dina, Ihsan, Shariah, and Najlah, the ones closest to me, my soul sisters. Will pray for Da Boys -- Yahya, Micks, Yamani, Khalid, Rommel, and Ibn, and the rest of my MSA people. For Dudut, my cousin slash brother slash friend slash absentee family member. Will pray for Majed, who has taught me a lot about the country I grew up in and thought I knew, and the religion I was brought up in and thought I'd mastered. Will pray for emptiness to be wiped out. For Diane, my blog buddy. For all their kindness and thoughtfulness to be returned to them in blessings ten-fold.

7. Will pray for my students who have been nothing but wonderful. They brought out the worst in me, but ultimately, the best as well.

8. Will pray for time management skills, the ability to do my best in everything I do, and for the awareness that anything worth doing is worth doing well.

9. Will pray for compassion, good judgement, moderation, and consistency in all my affairs. [erm.. weight loss figures here, I guess. Ha ha.]

10. Will pray for my childhood friends, for Nhuraphy who passed away, and for the family and friends that love her. For the Busaw Family. For Jehanifah, the B-side to all my stories. For Jiehan.

11. Will pray for all the friends of the family.

12. Will thank God for all the blessings I overlooked.

13. Will pray for prayer. For the light of the Qur'an. For knowledge. For Islam. For peace.

Will say a little prayer for you.

Ameen.

Hajj Mabroor, everyone, and Eid Mubarak. See you in five.