مظاهرة السافرات

خرجت الفرنسيات، الشقراوات، اللواتي قال عنهن عديد كبير من شهود العيان، بأنهن جميلات، حسناوات، بعيون زرق مثل المحيطات، وشعر منسوج من شعاع القمر والشمس، خرجن سافرات إلى شوارع المدينة صباح اليوم، فيما كان يتطاير شعرهن مع نسيم هواء حارق، وتلتصق ثيابهن بأجسادهن بسبب الرطوبة.

وقد علمنا من مصادر موثوقة أنهن قد خرجن سافرات من مضاجعهن الكائنة في المجمعات السكنية التي باتت وكأنها معسكرات محصنة، أو سجون محروسة، أو مناطق منبوذة طبيعية، تهدف إلى إبعادهن عن باقي المجتمع المحافظ، المستقيم، الرصين، النقي.

قالت التقارير أنهن قد خرجن سافرات لأول مرة في تاريخ المدينة احتجاجاً على إرغامهن أن يلبسن غطاءين من قماش أسود اللون: أحدهما لشعرهن والأخر لأجسادهن، واحتجاجاً على التدخل في حريتهن الشخصية في الظهور سافرات، كما تسمح لهن عادتهن وتقاليدهن ومذاهبهن في بلادهن.

وفي محاولة للحفاظ على أمن الدولة، قامت السلطات الرسمية بإرسال وحدات الأمن إلى الشوارع، وفرض حظر التجول على الرجال، بغية حمايتهم من التعرض لمخاطر جسيمة إثر العبوات التفجيرية الأنثوية التي تهتز في تظاهرة نسوية لم تشهد شوارع المدينة لها مثيل، وأيضاً لحمايتهم – أي الرجال – من دعوات الإثم الذي تحمله المتظاهرات داخل خصيلات شعرهن، وفي أريج عطوهن، وحفيف خطواتهن، التي بدأت تتكاثر وتغزو أكثر الشوارع ضيقاً وصغراً في المدينة.

إلا أن بيان رسمي أدلى أن وحدات السيطرة على الأمن فقدت السيطرة كلياً أمام شرارات حرف النون، وانتشارها وباء فتاك يقتحم أنوفهم، وحناجرهم، ومساماتهم، ويدغدغ لحاهم المنكوشة، ويتخلل عبر ثغرات ضعفهم. كما تسللت شرارات النون عبر نوافذ، وأبواب، وفتحات البيوت الدقيقة، لتصل إلى رجال المدينة المحظورين من التجول، فعلت الصلوات، والأدعية، خوفاً من هذا الشر الذي يهز النفوس، ويضعف العزيمة، رغم مضاعفة إحكام إغلاق العين، والأنف، والفم، والعقل ..

وفي قرار عاجل أعلتنه القيادة العامة، فوضت قوات الأمن باستخدام كل ما تملك من أسلحة مقاومة الشغب، والتجمعات غير القانونية، والمظاهرات غير الشرعية (كتلك التي لا تقف خلف مواقفها، أو تبادر بها، هيئات الدولة الرسمية).

وقد شملت معدات مقاومة هذه التظاهرة التي استهجنها واستنكرها كبار الدولة، خوذات منع البصبصة ذات الغطاء الداكن للوجه، وأدرع خاصة تحمي أجساد القوات من أي تلامس عن قصد/من غير قصد، وملابس وقائية تحول دون الاحتكاك المباشر وغير المباشر، بالمتظاهرات، فيما استخدمت وحدة الردع الخاصة معدات ضخ المياه القوية، التي تهدف إلى تشتيت التجمعات.

وقد بلغنا أن الذي حدث على أرض الواقع هو أن قوات التحالف (من شرطة وأمن ودفاع مدني)، لم تتمكن من مقاومة المقاومة, فقد وقف رجال الوحدات في حالة انبهار، وشبه انهيار تمام أمام تلك الحشود الناعمة، المتدللة، المدللة، المتدلية، حيث كانت نتيجة رشهن بالمياه زيادة تبلل فساتين المتظاهرات الرقيقة والتصاقها المبالغ بأجسادهن، وتبلل شعرهن الحريري، وازدياد لمعان بشرتهن اللؤلؤية. كما تسبب ضخ المياه بقوة في تعثر النسوة، ووقوعهن بعضهن فوق بعض، فتعرت أعناق، وزنود، وسياقان، فظهرت، على لسان عدد أكبر من شهود العيان، ظهرت الممشوقة، والنحيلة، والممتلئة، والبضة، وغيرها من الأوصاف التي ربما كانت بعدد المتظاهرات، وقد شلت تماماً كافة أعضاء قوات التحالف أمام هذا العرض المفاجئ، الزخم للمفاتن والمحرمات.

عند وصولي إلى موقع الشلل الرئيسي، كان الجيش الأميري قد وصل هو الأخر، بمدرعاته، ودباباته، وكان هذا الحضور القوى قد جاء لردع هيجان الأعضاء المتحالفة، التي تجردت مما تستخدمه من عقولها، فكانت على وشك الاندلاع في الشوارع بعد مرحلة الشلل التي أشرنا إليها أنفاً، والتي دامت لبضعة دقائق، فوجد الجيش الأميري نفسه متورط في موقف لا يحسد عليه .. ألا وهو الدفاع عن السافرات.

تعقيبات:

دائرة الشرطة المركزية:

صدر بياناً رسمياً نفت فيه دائرة الشرطة المركزية رسمياً الخبر القائل بأن عدد كبير من عناصرها نزع خوذات منع البصبصة، وذلك رغم العثور على العديد من هذه الخوذات متناثرة ومحطمة في أرجاء المدينة. كما أوضحت أن أسباب هذه الظاهرة الغريبة غير واضحة في الوقت الحالي، وأنه سيتم دراستها ضمن الإستراتيجية القومية التي يقوم بإعدادها وكيل مجلس المشورة.

إدارة قوات الأمن:

نفت إدارة قوات الأمن الخبر القائل بأنها قبلت مبالغ ضخمة مقابل تعديل مواصفات الملابس الوقائية. وقد أكد لنا مراسلنا أنه تم فعلاً تعديل مواصفات الملابس الوقائية، وأفادنا بتقرير واضح فاضح عن رقة الأنسجة المستخدمة، التي قال أنها برقة ورق السجائر الأمريكي المستورد … بيد أنه قام بنفسه بتجربتها وذلك عبر ملامسة إحدى المتظاهرات وهو يرتدي القفزات الوقائية التي عثر عليها في ساحة المظاهرة. وتدل نتائج التقرير، بناء على التجارب الميدانية العديدة التي قام بها مراسلنا شخصياً، وبعض من زملاءه الذين تطوعوا لمساعدته في إعداد هذا التقرير الخاص، تدل النتائج على أن القفزات لا تشكل أي نوع من الحماية لأيادي، بل وبالعكس، فقد أكد مراسلنا أنها تضاعف في النفوس والأجساد تأثير الملامسة المحظورة.

الجيش الأميري:

نفى الجيش الأميري الاتهامات بأنه كان يحاول حماية السافرات، وملاطفتهن، وبأنه قام باعتقال عدد ضخم من أعضاء قوات التحالف المتضخمة، كما نفي قيادة الجيش الأميري بأنه تم تكليف عناصر خاصة لمرافقة ما تيسر من السافرات وإرجاعهن إلى منازلهن، بيد أن العناصر المكلفة بهذه المهمة الخطرة اختفت لساعات يقال أنها لصعوبة تنفيذ هذه الأوامر.

تصريحات الشارع:

صرح البعض أن الشهامة الذكورية التي يتمتع بها أبناء هذا الشعب الكريم، هي التي شلتهم، فمنعتهم من التعرض إلي الحسناوات السافرات المتظاهرات، بينما أدلى آخرون بتصريحات أثارت غضب كبار المسؤولين بالدولة، تشير إلى أن أحداً لم يدرك ماذا يفعل بهن، أي المتظاهرات، أو كيف يتم إيقافهن، أو القبض عليهن، ولا من أين يتم الإمساك بهن.

فدوى  

Since the beginning
And so it is at the end
Only thoughts remain
Resounding in your head…

Powerful and ambitious
With the ability to create
Something from anything
And anything from nothing

I am merely a catalyst
Igniting candles behind your eyes
Bright flares in a wilderness
Where no other lights abound

That may be good enough for you
But there must be something more for me

fadwa

أقسم أنك غير موجود
تُخلق للحظة العناق
وتتلاشى عندما أغادرك..
لكنْ.. كيف تقودني إليك
لنلتقي مرة أخرى!
فدوى

في زحمة القطار
تركت بصمة، وقطرة عطر، على نهدي..
التهمتني
سألتُ قشور أيامي فهمستْ:
… تمسكي جيداً بالوهم،
…لا وقت يكفي لغير الأحلام …
فدوى

تؤلمني
أصابع قدمي
من التشبث بالحادة
من حواف الوجود
في إنتظار لا ينتظر
…لانسلالها
بهدوء
وفي انتظار أن ينسى التفاح الأخضر
طعم شفتي
والغاردينيا
جنون شعري

فدوى

جلست واسندت ظهرها إلى السور الخشبي الأبيض.

فستانها قصير.

في يدها كتاب.

رذاذ الأمواج الرقيقة لا يزعجها، والآفق يناديها، فتقول له انتظر برهة ريثما أنتهي من قراءة هذا الفصل.

مستغرقة في كتابها، وفي حديثها مع الأمواج، لم تشعر به.

جلس خلفها.. خلف السور الخشبي الأبيض، واسند ظهره إليه.  

فتحات ما بين اللوح الذي يستند إليه وذلك الذي تستند إليه هي، تدخل إلى عالمه رائحة البحر، ووعد الآفاق، والأمل الذي تبعثه روح انثى تجلس قريباً.

كان يسعده مجرد وجودها بجواره.. بقربه.. على الشاطئ، على الرمال، بيدها كتاب، وفستانها قصير.

احساسه بصلابة السور الخشبي خلفه يؤكد له أن هذا ليس حلماً ..

لكنه كان يحلم.

يتخيل أنهما معاً.

أتيا إلى الشاطئ معاً.

تجمع بينهما سنوات طويلة، جميلة، من العشرة، من الحب، تسمح لهما أن يجلسا هكذا.. في صمت تام . ينصتان إلى الموسيقى الرقيقة التي تصدرها شظايا الأصداف حين تقتحمها الأمواج.

هي تقرأ. وهو جالس، يتأمل، باسترخاء.

هي تقرأ.

فستانها القصير يكشف عن فخذيها بأريحية تامة. لا تخجل منه، وهو لا يخجل من النظر إليهما مباشرة.

يغمض عينيه.

يسمعها تنادي اسمه، صوتها خافت. تمد له يدها، تبحث عن يده، تلامس أصابعه، بدون الإلتفات إليه.

يفتح عينه.

أمامه المنزل الذي يعمل على تشييده. اسمنت، حجارة، حديد، غبار، معدات.. زيه الأزق تنتشر فيه بقع العرق.. ينظر عبر الفتحة في السور. لم تزل جالسة، وفستانها القصير يبدو أقصر.

قطرات غزيرة من العرق تنسكب من جبهته، تدخل في عينيه، تحرقهما. 

يعطس.

تذعر هي.

يقع الكتاب من يدها.

تلتفت إلى الوراء، فترى عاملاً مسترخياً خلفها مباشرة، يحملق فيها ببلاهة.

تنتفض واقفة، تنهال عليه بالمسبات وهي تُسابِقُ نفسها في جمع أغراضها واخفاء ما تستطيع من ساقيها وذراعيها وصدرها.

فدوى

Looking up

from under

the waves

all is turquoise, azure, teal

The first music

of the earth

melts into

the white foam

and takes me with it..

I Am What I Art

A Paper in Progress for A Life in Progress

Art is.

Art is my cold morning shower.

Art is my impassioned, intuitive, endless child-cry: “Why not?”

Art is my sickle with which I cut myself a path through the overgrowth of reality.

Art is my excavation tool.

I have finally decided to write my I Am What I Art Live Document in which I pour out my passion for art and what it means to me. I called it a Live Document because I expect to be adding, amending, changing it along the way. Perhaps you share some of what I feel, perhaps not. I would love to hear from you in any case. You can read the full document by clicking I AM WHAT I ART. 

قال لها كيف تحلمين؟

غباء، أنانية، أن تحلمي بأمور مستحيلة.

نهاية

بياض ليس بأبيض

براءة تبحث عن البدايات

آلام وأشغاف فقدت رونقها

حزن فقد زخمه،

وحدة أصبحت نغمة

فضاء يتغير، يتحول، يتقوقع، يحاصر

ثغرات وفراغات تكبر، تتكاثر، تتوالد

ذكريات تدنس .. تعصف بها أخر الدموع .. يعانق بللها الأقدام

فدوى

It’s not that they forgot or that they don’t care. It’s just that they don’t realize how much they touched your life.

In the non-light we hide

Our glowing hearts failing to guide us

Our lives lapping at our feet

If we cannot conquer reality

Then this illusion will do

And simple questions will

Ceaselessly

Grow

Climbing our souls

Leaving tight, itching, invisible scars.

A new post on my inspirational blog – Teach me Something.

I cry

Too often

Sometimes tears

But mostly opaque drops

Of pain

Making life foggy

Always

Except the moments

I’m with you.

“لم أعد بعد، لم تنته الطريق لأقول مجازاً، أن الرحلة ابتدأت”

محمود درويش

الحب إنتمائي

موسيقاه..

ويأتيني الآذان من بعيد.. 

تثير هذه الأوتار حسيتي.. شوقي.. رغبات متفاقمة.. تأخذني إليه.

إنما.. لا حزن.. لا ندم.

لا أعرف ما هو هذا الشعور الذي ينتابني؟

هل الوقت متأخرً الآن؟

لا.

لم يزل هناك متسعً من الوقت لتخترقني موسيقاه من جديد..

وتحدث فتحات صغيرة يشع عبرها نور روحه التي تسكنني..

كنت واثقة أن الأرواح تختار مسارها، ثم تأتي الدنيا لتسكن أجسادنا..

لكنه أكد لي أن روحه اختارت جسدي أنا.. فكثيراً ما انساب في احاسيسي المضطربة كورقة زهرة عطرة، رقيقة، دافئة..

الآن أنا واثقة أنه على حق.. بداخلي روحان، كانا يمرحان سوياً في جسدي الذي كان يستشيط جمالاً فقط لأجله.  

بداية، كانوا يزوروني في المستشفى.

فضلت ذلك، فالمواعيد المحددة تعني أنني أعرف متى سيأتون ومتى سيذهبون.

ثم قررت العودة إلى المنزل.. عندما أبلغوني بأنه لا أمل.

وما أدارهم ما الأمل؟

بل هذا هو أملنا الوحيد.

هذا الأمل منحتني إياه روحانا بعد أن وهبتني روحه حياة مفعمة بالحياة.

هذا الثمن الذي علي أن أدفعه..

فلم تعد أمامي خيارات. مشيت، سبحت وركضت وحلقت، حتى وصلت إلى مفترق مؤلم، صعب.

الآن فهمت كيف يكون الموت نعمة..

يرحمني من الوقوف أمام ذاتي لأختار وأنا لا أقوى على الإختيار.. ولا أقوى على الصمود أمام ما عليَّ أن أختاره.

فليختارني هو إذن.. وليكن القرار قراره.

لا حزن.. لا ندم..

عليَّ أن أحتمل ألماً شديداً مقابل ما منحت من حب شديد.

أستلقى على سريري..

وعلى سطح جلدي تستلقى حواسي كلها، وكل منها تجمع خمسةً أخرى.

في البيت، لم أعد أطيق الزيارات.

لم أرد لأحد أن يعكر حميمية اللحيظات الثمينة التي أعيد فيها تفاصيلنا..

فعندما يداهمني الزوار، تنفلت مني قصصنا هائمة في الغرفة..

تصطدم بالجدران..

تحوم حول الضوء..

تفوح رائحتها كأريج زهرة البرتقال..

تعلق بملابسهم.. تدخل مساماتهم.. تصطحبهم عندنا يبتعدون..

سيقرؤون حروفها في وحدتهم..

سيلتحفون بدفئها الذي يلازمني..

ستعلمهم شيئأ..

أغمض عيني.

يأتيني حضوره سيمفونية..

كلمات.. صمت.. سكون..

قبلات .. لمسات ..

اجتياحات سريعة.. بطيئة.. لاهفة.. حارة.. متحفظة.. همجية.. عفوية.. 

أو ربما هو الآذان الذي أسمعه.

لا أعرف كيف كان يراني الآن..

متقطعة الأنفاس، شاحبة، ذابلة..

أما أنا، فلم أعد أراه أمامي لشدة نوره بداخلي.

ثمة إدراك عميق يستشعر وجوده.. ينتظره ليرتفع بي..

لم أعد قادرة على لمسه ولا التحدث إليه..

.. ربما لأنه ليس لدي ما أقوله..

لم آت لهذا العالم لأغيره..

لكنه عندما كان يبتسم لي، كنت أرى سعادة لم أر لها مثيلاً.

كان يبتسم بكل خلاياه الإنسانية والرجولية. ألهذه الدرجة كان يؤثر عليه وجودي؟

كان يقول لي أنى جميلة، أنظر في المرآة، ولا أعرف عن أي جمال يتحدث.

كان يقول يجب أن أنظر عبر عينيه..

كأنه لا يدرك ماذا فعل بي..

يكفيني أنه يراني جميلة..

يكفيني أنه هو الذي وجد أجنحتي ورفع عنها الظلال..

ولحن لي لحناً، أطير على نوتاته، وأسمو على أنغامه، فوق الكائنات، عند قمم أعلى الجبال..

بلا قيود، بلا حدودية، بلا نهاية أو بداية.

تثاقل مبهم يجتاحني..

بل هو احتراق كغليان المياه قبل التبخر..

يصل التثاقل إلى جفوني، رغم أن عيني مغلقتين..

هل هناك داعي أن أسأل الكون عن وجودي؟

ذكرياتي هو..

خلودي هو..

تربتي..

فلماذا أذن لا تنتمي هذه الفراشة لزهرة البرتقال، للجردينيا والياسمين والفتنة والفل..

.. وإليه..

ولأموت على صدره ثملة بعشق تعبق به رائحة مخيلات الفنانين وأحلام الشعراء..

..حبه كتابي..

سأحمله بيمني..

لا شــيء غـير الـنـوم يطـفئ جـذوة الـتـفـكـير في قــيـد الـنـهـار

Osho : This is one of the reasons why women are not yet liberated, because they cannot become a force together. They sympathize with the man; their sympathy is not for other women. With other women they have a relationship only of jealousy — if she has better clothes, if she has better ornaments, if she has a good car, if she has a better house. Their only relationship with other women is of jealousy. But if every woman is jealous of every other woman, then naturally this is one of the fundamental causes of their slavery.

They cannot become a force; otherwise they are half the number of people — they could have managed to become liberated long ago. Any time they wanted to be liberated there was nothing to prevent them. They are their own enemies. One thing every woman has to remember is that man has divided you in such a cunning way that you can never become a force. You are jealous of each other; you don’t have any sympathy for each other. You would rather sympathize with men — not your man of course! It has to be somebody else’s man.

To everyone celebrating Christmas today, many happy returns – I hope you will give a thought to the Christians (and others) in Beith Lahim, the birth place of Jesus, as they are still suffering under occupation and probably did not have such a Merry Christmas for years now.

Stories can be used to empower and to humanize. Stories can break the dignity of a people .. but stories can also repair that broken dignity… Click to hear Chimamanda Adichie talk about the danger of a single story.

أخرج من معطفه الجريده ..وعلبةَ الثقاب

Déjeuner du matin

Il a mis le café
Dans la tasse
Il a mis le lait
Dans la tasse de café
Il a mis le sucre
Dans le café au lait
Avec la petite cuiller
Il a tourné
Il a bu le café au lait
Et il a reposé la tasse
Sans me parler

Il a allumé
Une cigarette
Il a fait des ronds
Avec la fumée
Il a mis les cendres
Dans le cendrier
Sans me parler
Sans me regarder

Il s’est levé
Il a mis
Son chapeau sur sa tête
Il a mis son manteau de pluie
Parce qu’il pleuvait
Et il est parti
Sous la pluie
Sans une parole
Sans me regarder

Et moi j’ai pris
Ma tête dans ma main
Et j’ai pleuré

(source: http://www.ph-ludwigsburg.de/html/2b-frnz-s-01/overmann/baf4/prevert/dejeuner.htm)

The Week Before the Wife Arrived 

Friday 14^th September Task until next summer … He would have to painstakingly rebuild the status of the relative peace necessary to maintain at least a borderline quality of life.  

By Thursday night he had succumbed to the feeling of defeat. Now he knew for certain that his life would completely collapse. He knew he was doomed as soon as he saw her at the arrivals hall at the Dubai International Airport. The way she had pinched her nose and sniffed; he knew that the stench of honeyed tobacco had powerfully invaded her nostrils. What he thought was a tightly knit fabric of cover-ups had already started to unravel as a tiny thread got caught on the baggage trolley they abandoned haphazardly outside the airport. He watched himself open the door for her and the kids. He watched himself get into the car and sit behind the wheel. Spanish classical flamenco music floated around in his head. Long fingers softly, slowly, quietly strumming the guitar strings. The melody swept through his soul, leaving a deafening silence to invade his thoughts, warning him of the crescendo to come. The same tune repeated itself again and again, but was getting faster, louder, faster, louder..  

She glanced for a long time at both his hands on the steering wheel. One was obviously much darker than the other. His palms were hot and clammy. His contribution to the conversation was just as clammy. When she reached for his mobile to call to a friend, he nearly snatched it from her hand. He tried very hard to remember if he deleted Titiana’s name and the messages she had sent him in his wife’s absence, and whether or not he had in fact threw out the condoms.    He knew she was already recording his every move in that little book with endless pages that resided inside her head. Many, many years ago her attention to detail was one of the characteristics that drew him to her. He had been greatly, but secretly, flattered by the way she was attentive to everything he said and everything he left unsaid. She would remember things he had long taken for granted; the dimples on his cheeks when he smiled; the green flickers of colour in his eyes when the sun shone on his face. Things like how he preferred his tea light with one and a half teaspoons of sugar, while he drank his coffee well boiled and bitter; that he liked his water very cold; and the fact that she had always remembered to bring him some chocolate to eat before smoking shisha.  

As they drove into the car park of their apartment building, he noticed with much relief, and much greater guilt, that there was a new watchman crouching on his haunches smoking a cigarette. But he knew that this, too, would not go by her unnoticed.  

Thursday 13^th September Change wife’s name back from Nabil in mobile contacts list.Delete Titiana’s name and messages.  

He kept postponing deleting her name and number, although he had already deleted all her inspiring, regenerating messages. Just having her name amongst his list of contacts was enough to keep alight embers of his belief in himself as a man. It was about that tiny crack in that huge wall he stared at every day which reminded again and again of his disappointments. That tiny crack in that obstinate wall which let in enough sunshine to warm his heart for a while. 

Wednesday 12^th September Delete recent items on desktop, internet cache and internet browsing history. 

Everything everywhere reeked of tobacco; it was getting to his head. He felt it making him delirious. He looked around the building for the watchman, but he saw only Khan’s things; his frayed and faded laundry hanging on a plastic coated wire knotted on two rusty nails, his tool kit, his bicycle, his eyes.  The streets were lined with cars. The car parks were full. The parking meters on the pavements were shimmering orange in the sun. He parked on the sand on a plot of land which will probably be turned into one more tallest building. He parked not concerned whether or not he will be trapped by other cars. He’ll deal with that when it occurs. He called in sick. He took his laptop and walked to The French Connection. One café latte and he sat there for hours, hooked up to the net, surfing, looking for nothing.  

Tuesday 11^th September 

Bring someone to clean-up the house. The tobacco odour was fast spreading throughout the city. As he drove to his office this morning it appeared to be forming a thick, heavy fog hiding the tips of unfinished sky scrapers lining Sheikh Zayed Road. The winds carried soft golden sands into every crevice possible, reminding him once more that this city resides in a vast open desert hidden behind rows of tall mirrored towers planted along the road. Like him, these buildings succeeded in superficially blending in – perhaps temporarily, perhaps permanently. Time will be the final judge. For now, they are all here, he thought, their roots extending upwards to the frivolous fog.  

He felt no strong attachment to any country, and this one was no exception. The image of rooting to the sky pleased him. It made him feel like the free spirited persona he likes to project himself as in front of others; although his wife, of course, never glimpsed this persona.   Since he got married, some ten years ago, he had avoided doing any housework whatsoever. Within weeks he had established the ground rules – and she had accepted them all, for it was he who had saved her from the life sentence of spinsterhood one month before she entered her 34^th year. She was pretty and intelligent, but her arrogance had slowly twisted into an abhorrent conceit and haughtiness which kept even female friendships at bay. Over the years insistent clicking of tongues broke her haughtiness and her spirit, turning her into a contortionist whose only aim was to please everyone. A silent, desperate creature learning to accept a life thinly tied to fragile hopes of potential suitors who would come from far away lands because this city of dreams had not yielded the waited one.    

It truly was one particularly weak moment when he somehow gave in to his mother’s constant nagging. His mind must have been very foggy when he decided to actually get married, although, like the majority of his male peers, he thought himself to be a good catch. He was 38, his life was as uncomplicated as his bachelor’s apartment was cluttered. If there was something wrong in his life, he would have never guessed it.  When he arrived at his apartment building, he headed straight for the management office and ranted and raged about Khan’s peeping as if it had happened just yesterday and not two years ago. Management was unaware of his wife’s traveling, and he knew with a pang of guilt, that Khan did not stand a chance.  

Monday 10^th September 

Wean off single friends.  The bucket of water he threw down the drain yesterday had apparently seeped out some corroded pipes. The odour of the tobacco was now all over the small building in which he lived. He was lost as to what he could do about it. But Khan’s increasingly threatening stares he would do something about. The last thing he needed was this guy telling his wife that he saw him with another woman. The hell he would go through to convince her that nothing happened was not worth it precisely because nothing had happened! 

The first summer his wife went to Amman, they had kissed each other goodbye. They had at least cared for one another. Despite the circumstances of their marriage, he counted the days till her return – though never openly in front of his friends. It was the manly thing to rejoice at the prospect of returned bachelorhood. Suddenly his friends would regain their courage and bombard him almost daily to go somewhere. It was an annual ritual they all seemed to look forward to, one from which no one appeared able to escape once entangled in the nets of the Arabian Gulf. It never mattered where they went – popular and simple shisha cafes, dodgy night clubs and bars – it was the act of defiance and the exhilaration that came with it that mattered.  Yet another message from Titiana; the vibration announcing the message’s arrival sent shivers down his spine. How is it that we take stock of everything in our lives but not our lives? He tried hard to remember the feeling he use to have when it was his wife he thought of whenever he felt an emotional intensity as they watched a movie together or listened to a moving piece of music. Violin music in particular always stirred his passion; the soulfulness, the tenderness, the smoothness. It would make him feel vibrant, alive, desirable. He would take her hand, his senses heightened, and lead her to bed. He would be on fire, yearning for the pleasures of sex. It was only years later that he discovered the reason he was never quite fulfilled was that he had always been the only one hearing the violins.  

He forgot now how often they had sat there staring at the TV wearing intimate clothing but no longer sharing any really intimate moments; she no longer felt or smelt the same. Stealthily did that moment in time arrive, he cannot pinpoint it now, when the relief he felt was stronger than the pain of loss, when his carelessness overwhelmed his emotional need for her. As long as life was somehow running its course, it was easier to just let it just keep on running. The memory of how things were before was simply becoming too heavy a burden to continue shouldering, it was easier to put down the load, as each summer they bid each other goodbye with one less kiss. These days what he truly cherished was his time alone in his car; sometimes he could even have complete thoughts and develop his own philosophies. Sometimes he would park his car somewhere, turn the music on so loud it would exorcise everything else out of his system, then he would just sit there watching people rushing around. He would watch their facial expressions, the way they swung their arms, the colour of their socks. He never tried to imagine their lives, he just tried to imagine what they might be thinking at that precise moment when he became aware of their existence. There’s an intoxicating feeling of power watching others while you yourself remain motionless, serene, detached, free of the burden of compassion. He made up his mind – Khan must go. 

Sunday 9^th September 

Continue tanning left hand with wedding ring on. Increase efforts to get rid of honeyed tobacco smell.  The hot water in which he soaked his boxers became like an infused humidifier which now permeated throughout the whole apartment. The smell was almost overpowering. Half asleep, he threw the water down the drain, and then got ready for work. This whole tobacco thing would not have been an issue, except for the fact that he had promised his wife that he would quit smoking. While the shisha was usually excluded from this ban, his wife had insisted, and to avoid additional conflict, he had given in once again and he had lied to her. 

He was happy to have shipped her and the kids back to Amman for the summer months as usual; and it made his life easier that that had pleased her, too. Returning to an empty flat for weeks on end was heaven. He could revert to his pre-marital careless inconsiderate laziness – at least within the confines of his outrageously expensive, ill-maintained, 2 bedroom penthouse. Somewhere between the boiling hot weather, the scorching rents, the nagging of his mother and his wife, he resigned himself to the fact that his world will never be what he expected. Still, he loved Dubai. This was a city he could truly identify with. It understood him and allowed him to invent and reinvent himself as they both got older, bolder and more experienced – and as the audience grew and continued to change. It was a relatively easy thing to do. A simple marketing campaign was enough, no one would bother to delve deeper. Over the years since his arrival in 1985, he had slowly and meticulously greenified the dry landscape of his dull existence; he said that he had studied at Stanford and graduated with honours; that he had rejected an exceptional job offer in the US so that he could come back and work in an Arab country; that he had never applied for a green card because he was simply too busy and it was not that important to him; that his elder brother who was a clerk at the ministry of defense was a general in the national army; and his father who was a humble, unambitious bank manager was one of the pillars of Amman. This fable, however, did not protect him from being overlooked when it came to promotions as the barely 30-something, inexperienced, recently hired auditor from the UK received a promotion far exceeding his salary after 15 years of dedication to the same company. He has often wondered if he could have done more to get more out of life. But what is doing more, he would ask himself? And everything always ended up being a big waste of time. 

He had once believed that If you have the right ingredients, you can create magic anywhere, that’s the magic of magic.  Saturday 8^th September 

Tan left hand with wedding ring on. Get rid of honeyed tobacco scent. When he woke up this morning, the scent of the honeyed tobacco had enveloped him. That particular corner where he had flung his boxers the night before emitted a strong scent which had embedded itself into the very fibres of the carpet and was slowly inching its way across the apartment. He now had to shampoo the carpet as well.  

He started using every opportunity to make sure his left hand was exposed to plenty of hot, burning sun. He drove to his office that morning with his hand dangling out of the window holding a cigarette he never smoked but which was a necessary excuse to open his car window in this heat; and when he drove from his office to the mall, he did the same.   Going to the mall on a daily basis started off as a way to avoid the traffic. Rather than spending close to an hour getting home, he came up with the ingenious idea of stopping off at the nearest mall – and there were plenty to choose from. He personally preferred Mall of the Emirates. He would have a cup of coffee at Starbucks – which he kept promising himself he would boycott – he would read the papers and move on an hour or so later. His plan was so ingenious that everyone else had also thought of it. As a result the mall and coffee-shops were usually packed, and Sheikh Zayed Road was almost just as congested two hours later. But this did not deter him from his plan, for he discovered, like every other hot-blooded man, that this was a perfectly respectable place to openly ogle the multi-cultural, fashion-oriented-victimized female population.  

When he got home again that night, he could not escape Khan’s eyes. The watchman had a special liking to his wife who always gave him little gifts and leftovers of their hot meals some evenings, but did not care much for him. This was mainly because he had caught him once peeping in on his wife from the roof. They live in a penthouse apartment with a rooftop “garden”, and Khan had the key to the upper roof of the penthouse where all the air-conditioners, water tanks and TV satellites were. One evening he arrived home to find Khan peeping through the windows. It’s true that his wife was not exposed at all, and he never told her about this incident, but he made it very clear to Khan that he would hold this like a sword over his neck. He tried, unsuccessfully, not to give too much thought to his the threatening message Khan’s eyes conveyed. When he reached his apartment, he doused his boxers with laundry powder and left them to soak overnight in hot boiling water. 

Friday 7^th September All he had to do today was find his wedding ring and tan his left hand with it on. 

The aroma of honeyed tobacco clung to him, and so did the beautiful Titiana. He knew very well what attracted him to her, but he could not figure out what on earth drew her to him. He had only one week to readjust to the fact of his being a husband and father. To reinstate himself and his surroundings to what his wife considered appropriate. To clear out all evidence of ever having enjoyed his few revitalizing moments as a bachelor. To rinse away any stubborn inspirational stains from his soul. What was he supposed to do with Titiana seven days and counting from his wife’s arrival? That was what he kept asking himself, as he watched her cross her legs and slip a slender foot out of her shoes. He was simultaneously thinking of coloured and flavoured condoms, when the memory of where he had left his wedding band popped into his head.  Today was his last day of absolute freedom… until next summer. He vaguely recalled seeing Khan’s surprised face as he drove Titiana home, which turned out to be close to his own opposite Al Karama. He went home to an empty bed dragging frayed dreams which he hoped to extend a little longer by having an amazing creature such as Titiana within the confined proximity of his car.  He flung his boxers into the corner of his bedroom just before he closed his eyes and fell asleep.