Escort

Author: Sniper Copyright © 2003-2008
Location: Iraq

I was a sniper in the Iraqi army in 1990 and was dispatched to Kuwait after being drafted into the army months before we took Kuwait back. I was assigned to monitor the old Kuwaiti gate area from the Sheraton Hotel roof, a place where a lot of Asians met up as I had been told before the war.

One day, on a shift change, I saw a silver Honda Accord with a flat tyre. As I approached, this Kuwaiti girl, wearing the local black dress, looked somewhat confused. Our eyes crossed and I sort of wanted to help, but she looked somewhat afraid as I had my Dragunov sniper on the back of my shoulder. Anyhow, I asked her if she was okay or if she needed any help. She was afraid, but then she wondered if I could actually fix the tyre. I told her no problem and it would be better for her safety if she would stay in her car while I repaired it. To be honest, it was better that way so that I would be able to lower my long rifle and not worry about it falling in the wrong hands. As I started changing her tyre, our eyes crossed again. She smiled and opened the window to thank me. I sort of felt this sinful attitude in her eyes, so I smiled back.

After I repaired her tyre, she offered me some money. I told her that I couldn’t take it as I was only trying to help a lady. Then we talked a little and she asked me if I was usually posted in this area. I told her that my post was on top of the Sheraton, which had now been a command post for the beach operations from at least most of the floors of the Hotel. This was in September 1990.

Two days later, I see the same car on the main street flashing headlights and beeping, so I asked if I could go down and there she was again. We chatted and we both complained about the war. She turned out to be newly married, just months before the war, to some Kuwaiti guy who was into drugs with a mistress in an area called Hawalli. Things were allegedly not so good between the couple. Her name was Munya. She started to pass by after my shift change every day, and she was kind enough to even get me some sandwiches every now and then. The Army food was really crap. Then my officer started to get annoyed. But it wasn’t too bad.

One day, she invited me to some apartment that she said was her friend’s, and boy it got crazy. We fucked so hard. I don’t think I will ever forget it. I mean she was hot! It went on for some three weeks whenever I could steal some time from my post, every two or three days, to please her. There was this unease of the war situation. I always tried to avoid talking about politics with her, but it sort of worked out. I was then reassigned back to Iraq and exchanged addresses with her, but we never met again.

When I used to live in the U.K. before the war, there were many Kuwaiti chicks hanging out during the London summers looking for Iraqis, or Palestinians, to give them a really good fuck while their Kuwaiti husbands were busy spending all their filthy cash on English escorts. We always picked them up when we were college students from Edgware Road and the upper level restaurants of Whitelees Complex in Queensway. We used to also pick up Omani, U.A.E., Saudi Arabian, and Bahraini girls. But to be honest, the sluttiest were the Kuwaiti girls. Boy they were looking for it!

False Employment

Author: Hadija Copyright © 2008
Location: Kuwait

What is a maid or a nanny? What are their job requirements? They are individuals hired to perform certain duties, such as, house cleaning, washing and ironing, cooking, vacuuming, and child care. Each one is hired for a certain job. Well, that is the way it should be!

Do you know that many of these maids and nannies are brought to Kuwait on false pretenses? They are told that they will be working in hospitals, restaurants, salons, schools and other places, but when they arrive to Kuwait, they are employed as nannies or house maids.

They are not qualified for these jobs. They, usually, lack experience and many have never operated a washer, dryer, microwave, gas stove, iron, or any electrical appliance, or cared for children. Yet, they are forced to learn these tasks in a very short time. This is very stressful for a person who has little or no experience in this field of work, and one who has no interest in doing this type of job.

Whenever I read an article about a maid harming a child or children, harming herself, or being harmed by her employer, I ask myself who is at fault. Does the blame fall on the employer, the maids, or the governments of each country? I have spoken to many maids and nannies over the years, and found that a great number of them have so many regrets. They feel ashamed of their government, and they feel abandoned. Some feel that they have to make many mistakes, so that the employer will send them back to the labor office, and others are so stressed out that they usually take more drastic measures.

Does this sound wrong to you? Should people have to live like this? These women have rights. They have families waiting for them in their country. They have fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, husbands, and children who depend on them. They come here to earn a little money to send to their families so that their children can get an education. They send money home to take care of their fathers and mothers.

In Islam, we should be kind, generous, and treat people the way we would like to be treated. If an individual is hired for a certain job, and brought to Kuwait to work, they should work in the field in which they are trained. And, we should keep in mind that these individuals are human, too. Regardless of the work they are hired to do, they need rest, food and plenty of sleep so that they can perform their jobs well. They need training before coming to this country to be employed as a maid or nanny. Their rights should be secured, before they leave their country. And, if they are hired to work in a hospital, school, or restaurant, then, that is what they should be doing, as long as they have the qualifications.

Take a moment and think about this: What if your child or other family members had to work in another country? How would you want the people in that country to treat them? It’s been said, “What goes around, comes around.” So, think about it! Are you being fair to your employees?

Treat others the way you would like to be treated. May Allah show us guidance each and everyday.

A Postmodern Invitation: Modernity Is a Holy Practical Joke

Author: Devil Finch Copyright © 2008
Blog: www.devilfinch.blogspot.com
Location: Kuwait

What good has modernity done for us? Have we, humans, become more civilized? Modernity has helped us to invent cures for different diseases, but it has also created Cancer, HIV, Bird Flu, Mad Cow’s Disease and tragically failed to cure Bo lowyooh and Khaz Baz.

Modernity helped us beat distance with cars, trains, and airplanes, but it screwed the planet from behind, and within 2-3 generations, Planet Earth will be Planet Wasteland. Trust me, it won’t be as pretty as T.S. Elliot’s poem, and you are not going to be driving your Cayenne or sailing your yacht to anywhere nice.

Modern thinkers created democracy and human rights. Hoooorraaay … All humans will live in justice. But wait, the presumably most democratic country, and the world’s claimed human rights’ defender is the US, and it has caused only recently more death and destruction than the bad deeds achieved by Bin Laden, Stalin, Hitler, Saddam Hussein, Dr. Evil, Grandayzar, Mr. Freez, Al-Hajjaj, Khomainy, Nabba6at Bosamra and Um 9achmat 7ammod, all combined.

You might say Americans are fakes, and Europeans are for real. Modernity is the product of Europe a9lan – you might say this while toying with your PowerBook- and if one is looking for democracy, one should be talking about Europe. Come on guys. We all know it. Europe still stinks with racism (no generalization meant here). The Jews learned that before us, and from a quick look at European governments’ new policies concerning Muslims in their countries and the statements’ of Pope Abendectictactoc XIV, I think another Holocaust (Yes, it’s a Spa) is going to take place in Europe. Muslims will be invited there for a warm dialogue of civilizations.

Back to modernity. Yes, modern thinkers came up with feminism (Yaaaaaay). Chicks now can kick boys’ asses with some smart, sassy talk about how uncivilized men seek to oppress women and how chicks should get up and stand up to make men lie on their bellies while having sex with their female partners. Some men liked the idea …why not? Feminism is sexy for some men because they would like to try how it feels to be spanked.

Unfortunately, 13% of females, who came up with the idea and fostered it, were too high to implement it. 25% were jealous because the idea was not theirs, so they decided to dub feminists “Godless Bitches.” 38% were married and were too busy raising their kids and making sure that their husbands were not cheating on them. 29% are still arguing about the definition of feminism (I actually heard a nice lady saying that feminism is the religion for HM Madonna’s worshippers), and 80% are busy looking for Mr. Whoever, who will make them hate sex and metamorphose into heartless Femi-nazis.

Modernism, modernity, Mo6ern, Mo-dren-dren (Tarrik or dig heren), call it whatever you want. It’s a fucking bad practical joke (Ashkara Dagga). If we are now modern creatures living a modern life with better standards and more civilized concepts and relationships, how come men still dominate every fucking aspect of this world? Let’s examine the mating system in modern life as it is the most basic male-female relationship.

From my personal experience (nothing scientific), I know that many women – both eastern and western- feel more attracted to stronger men. Many of them also would like to see their men’s power/authority practiced in their relationships as proof of this claimed power. Why?

Jumping from personal experience to science, I’d like to mention that stronger male mammals mate with more females. In more common words, stronger male mammals get laid more often. That had been scientifically proven as I was told in an ‘animal behavior’ class back in college.

Biologists also say that female mammals are more attracted to stronger males because they can provide them with security/protection, especially when they’re parenting. One strategy practiced by male mammals to attract females is bluffing. Several studies have revealed that male mammals with better bluffing skills get more pu#*y than others, which tells me that females do buy into the stupid male bluffing.

Moreover, according to uncle Darwin, humans are mammals. I’m convinced that many women (no generalization being made) feel safer when their partners push them around. As I earlier said, it is proof -be it real or false- of their men’s power and ability to protect them and their kids. Let me make another personal note: In all of the gay/lesbian couples I encountered during my college years, one of the partners would be the bossy/strong and the other partner enjoyed being pushed around. Now, that tells me something about relationship-dynamics in our civilized era.

You may plausibly argue that we are not mere mammals, but we are unique, articulate human beings who create laws and negotiate to achieve peace. I would argue back that this is an illusion. According to a statistic published in the Sept./Oct. 2006 issue of Foreign Affairs Journal (I’m not making this up – not this one.), the latest century was the bloodiest ever. Hulaku’s era sounds like a fairy tale, compared to the warfare and killings we, human beings, have committed during our “civilized” era.

Wake up people. Grass is more comfortable than asphalt and concrete. The sky is more spectacular than the ceiling in San Lorenzo’s Church. Let’s get naked and run back to the forest. Let’s start all over. We might find a nicer path.

That’s an honest romantic invitation to postmodernism that you shouldn’t take seriously.

Notebook

Author: Shai Copyright © 2008
Location: Kuwait

She caught him, cross-legged, frantically writing hasty words on a worn-looking notebook. There was a stubborn looking crease on his forehead, and for a second, he held the end of his pen within the cage of his teeth. Squinting at his writing, it seemed he kept chewing on it. His hand, the one not holding the notebook steadily, was busy inspecting the papers back and forth.

She stayed there silent, watching her husband. Her breath caught, and for a moment, just a brief moment, she forgot about the sounds of the monitor, the constant beep, and the almost transparent gown enveloping her husband’s frail body.

It took a mighty effort, gulping down the sick tide of grief that washed over her features. Her vision swam, and her heart, her heart it seemed, wanted to squeeze itself until it stopped beating along the beeping sounds of her husband’s heart. She put her hands against her neck, trying to ward of the rush of agony, the sobs constricting her windpipe, trying to stall it. She needed to be strong. She needed to be.

She left him, the second time this morning. Didn’t announce her arrival, until later that night, excusing her absence with laughter, mundane stories about this and that. Entertaining him with the normal chaos at home, while rearranging the flowers beside his bed.

“I miss you,” he said. And for a minute, she stopped breathing.

“What are you writing?” She asked fondly, trying to hide the tremors on her hands, by playfully snatching his notebook from his lap. She didn’t miss the way he tensed, even though they both knew she wouldn’t open it without his knowledge.

“You‘ll find out soon enough,” he said. With a small side tilt to his mouth, sad in its angle, broken.

She never hated her husband as much as at that moment.

***

I remember the first time I saw you. You had your sunglasses on (big and round, glossy), your keys in one hand, several notebooks stacked and teetering dangerously in the other. You kept trying to close the car’s door, lock it, balance the phone on your shoulder, and rearrange your hijab at the same time. You got the door closed with your right hip and you locked it, only to puff irritably when the key fell on the gravel beside your feet. First time I heard you swear, too.

You forgot your bag inside, it seems, and it took you a minute, muttering something to the other person online, to close your phone. You bent low and put everything on the floor, folded yourself upright, hands on hips, and just stood.

The wind kept flirting with you, pushing away at your hijab, and you let it. Your scarf, light blue as the morning sky, kept trying to untangle itself, and for a minute, I saw your neck, a silver chain, sparkling along your pulse line.

First time I fell in love with anything.

***

“Good morning, love.” She says as she enters the room, hating the hospital sick smell of it.

He smiles, tiredly, opens up his arms, and waits for her.

Hesitating, she turns around to look at the nurse collecting the remains of breakfast on the table. But as soon as the door closes, she rushes over to hug her husband. Puts her arms around him, close to his heat, his smell. He doesn’t smell hospital sick, he smells like her husband, like home. He’s breakfast in bed, and expensive dinners. He’s late nights and early dawns. He’s winter, her blanket against the cold, and summer, lazily lounging in their beach house. He’s everything. He’s everything she knows.

She clenches her eyes shut and steels her resolve.

“So,” she says, “how about I get you something good to eat?”

His laughter is the best thing she has heard all year, and the trigger for all her emotional failures, it seems.

She can’t stop the tears from flowing.

***

You have always been a picky eater. You hate cucumber, except on your eyes. You can’t stand tomatoes, except when they’re mixed with your eggs (and they have to be very minuscule pieces, or you won’t touch it). You love ketchup though, and daqoos. You don’t eat meat, or fish. Except when it’s steak, and when its from McDonald’s, respectively. You love achar, and hate hashoo. You like diet Coke with your food, even though you know its bad, and how you go on and on about how none of our kids will ever drink that. And I quote you on this: “It’s the devil’s drink that freezes your intestines and bloats your liver.” Then you proceed to take a sip.

***

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“The doctor came to see me.”

“I know.”

“I …”

“I know.”

***

I can never find the words to say. They’re not enough, or maybe they’re just enough to hold one meaning. One feeling. And, I have plenty, multitudes, all colliding, overflowing. You’ll have to put up with a lot of words, love. This notebook. I have so much to say. I have so much to tell you.

Call of Prayer

Author: Tantalize Copyright © 2008
Location: Kuwait

The mosque behind my house is in between, tucked away residential streets. It rests on a corner; appearing uneventful. The walls are a dull sandy color like the blotches of desert around it. Few of the air-conditioners half work. Cracked walls on the outside of the building reveal layers of fresh paint that are haphazardly slopped on. It’s a Sunni temple. Privately funded by elderly neighbors who are approaching death, repenting for their younger lives by donating as much as possible for their earlier sins.

The mosque houses outer rooms for an Imam, or even a Sheikh. But they are rarely used. Employed with protracting-bellied Somalis, they live for free in exchange for managing the cleanliness of the entire mosque. They order Bangladeshi and Indian migrant workers, who are newly Islamicized, with violent and commanding speech to do much of the menial work instead. The Somalis are treated the same in turn when their Kuwaiti benefactors show up.

The call of prayer lures in followers five times a day. They are seduced, even hypnotized into the mosque in droves, like zombies upon command. From various corners, the adults move toward along the tired voice of the call for prey, in which an Afghani or Pakistani usually has the task of calling out. The voice is a weak attempt at Classical Arabic, and an abomination to the beauty which the Holy Quran was written in. Some of the call is barely interpretable. Yet, it beams uninterrupted from the towering minaret. Slowly, the believers, or perpetual believers, are comatosed in like sheep. Numb with a tinge of indifferent faces. A few others run to catch the call of prayer. Headgear and dishdashas loosen along the way. Speeding to catch the early pupils of God. They run to try to lesson any of their ill-begotten guilt, letting go of any self-dignity along the way.

A few hundred meters before entering the gates, children play; teasing and chasing one another with energetic laughter. Once within the gates, that energy transforms into a wickedly strict discipline. Few cars in the parking lot are parked sloppily, drastically off the contained lines made for individual cars, deliberately defying country laws and social discipline. On the outside of the religious structure, one or two contracted streets cleaners are seen pausing, watching the Muslims streamline into Islamic unity into the mosque. These cleaners mysteriously show up whenever calls of prayer take place, with pitiful faces and half-stemmed, begging hands.

When the prayers end, the freshly inducted have looks of calm, with more fulfilled smiles than before they entered: With appetized looks. The children, heads slanted down, kick rocks unenthusiastically going home. Their energies sapped out from their carefree, irreligious natures. The Somalis radiate full teethed smiles, waving farewell to the elderly Kuwaitis, then giving stern looks to the Asians.

The prayed upon – ones who have just prayed – depart this temporary yet abstract illusory place of worship not only because they may feel spiritually replenished, but because of finishing being called in to come and dutifully pray for a reward they have little understanding of ever calling in themselves.

Election Day

Author: Shai Copyright © 2008

Location: Kuwait

It is in the middle of a chaotic rumble when a thought strikes me solid still. I stay fixed, bone-chilled despite the glaring sun, the suffocating warmth of colliding bodies. People are striding along, like bees, intent and purposeful. It feels too crowded, too constricting within the open space of air and sky. Women around, and in front, beside, and all around me, ever changing, constantly moving, a sea of black and sprinkles of color here and there. I keep standing, still, looking down, clutching the fluorescent badge that hangs proudly around my neck, against my chest.

What do they see when they look at me? Do they notice the slight disdain curling around my lips, the proud arch of my eyebrows, the disapproving glint in my glare? Is it my face, or is it displayed on my badge, on the flyers I am handing out, on the man I am representing?

I stay put, contemplating, how out of place I look; at how different I feel. This isn’t my world. Not a place I belong to. I stare forward and blink at the heavy dripping makeup, the raised hijabs which are reminiscent of a camel’s hump, their form-fitting sea of black; their girlish giggles, painted chipped-red nails. I turn to the left and gaze at their counterpart, their flowing abiyas, their white Islamic scarf’s, the grim pointed looks of its women, pinched and sallow. To the right, I find the colored hijabs, flow and fluttering with the (occasional) wind, bare neck and white wrists displayed, makeup and tightly clothed. Red seems to be their favorite color.

I know where I stand, what they see. I know where my side is, standing proud and tall behind me. Their badges displayed, smiling wide and open, ready, and waiting.

I stay put. And, I wonder at my disdain, trying to fight the urge to flee and get out. I try to understand. I know where it’s coming from. Years and years of it, so heavy to lift off, I can’t help it. I was raised, unintentionally, to display it. To fight what I don’t understand, who I don’t belong to.

Is it natural? Are they doing the same to me?

I am jarred out of my feverish thoughts by an accidental elbow. She apologizes and smiles, clutching her flyers to her chest and eyeing the badge around my neck while rearranging her abiya. I smile back beamingly, reassuringly. Trying to apologize for something she isn’t aware of. Trying to find reasons. Validations.

Why can’t I accept you?

“It’s okay. It’s alright. Don’t worry about it.”

Overworked and Underappreciated

Author: Unknown

Location: Kuwait

Mom and dad were watching TV when mom said, “I’m tired, and it’s getting late. I think I’ll go to bed.”

She went to the kitchen to make sandwiches for the next day’s lunches, rinsed out the popcorn bowls, took meat out of the freezer for supper the following evening, checked the cereal box levels, filled the sugar container, put spoons and bowls on the table and started the coffee pot for brewing the next morning.

She then put some wet clothes in the dryer, put a load of clothes into the washer, ironed a shirt and secured a loose button. She picked up the game pieces left on the table and put the telephone book back into the drawer. She watered the plants, emptied a wastebasket and hung up a towel to dry. She yawned and stretched and headed for the bedroom.

She stopped by the desk and wrote a note to the teacher, counted out some cash for the field trip, and pulled a textbook out from hiding under the chair. She signed a birthday card for a friend, addressed and stamped the envelope and wrote a quick note for the grocery store. She put both near her purse.

Mom then washed her face with 3 in 1 cleanser, put on her night solution and age fighting moisturizer, brushed and flossed her teeth and filed her nails.

Dad called out, “I thought you were going to bed.”

“I’m on my way,” she said. She put some water into the dog’s dish and put the cat outside, then made sure the doors were locked. She looked in on each of the kids and turned out their bedside lamps, hung up a shirt, threw some dirty socks into the hamper, and had a brief conversation with the one up still doing homework. In her own room, she set the alarm; laid out clothing for the next day, straightened up the shoe rack. She also added three things to her 6 most important things to do list. She said her prayers, and visualized the accomplishment of her goals.

About that time, dad turned off the TV and announced to no one in particular. “I’m going to bed.” And he did, without another thought.

Is there anything extraordinary here?

My Existence

Author: L Copyright © 2008
Location: Kuwait

Scented truth
Existing death
Troubled tears
Threatened breath

A drop of sun
And frozen rain
Are melted hopes
And endless pain

Time is cruel,
Love is blind
Hurt is beautiful
Pain is kind…

A sense of giving
And forgiveness too
Are heavenly made

And honey dew

Life is tough,
I am too
Together we’ll live
Just me and you

Today is tomorrow
Yesterday is now
My past is my present
My name is my vow

To you I shall be truthful
To you I shall be kind
For you I shall die hurtful
Together our deaths will bind

A day in heaven
And a night in hell
Is how I live
And forever dwell…

Do You Believe?

Author: A Copyright © 2008

Location: Kuwait

Has anyone ever called you a disbeliever recently? Not necessarily in the religious meaning, but in general? Have your beliefs started falling one after the other, while not even knowing what to believe in anymore? Like things have lost their meaning? Like they don’t make any sense anymore?

Sense! Is that part of believing or not? When you say I believe in something, does it mean you take things for granted and without question? Or, is believing: considering, searching, thinking, observing, and connecting things together to make sense of them? And then taking it to heart? What if most of what you’ve been taught proved to be wrong; your most deeply rooted beliefs, the way you were raised? What happens when you start to question these things? Is it normal to feel rootless?

“Way ma hagait ennich entay bit9ereen chithee. 9ara7a ma tewaqa3t beyee yom etgoleen feeh halkalam!” Translation: “Oh, I never thought that you would turn out like this. Actually, I never thought there would come a day when you’d say such things!”

Have you failed their trust in you? Their interpretations? “You, the religiously well-raised child of a very religious father, the son of a Sheikh! And your mother, a respected activist and one of the sisters. It’s been months since you last prayed, and when was the last time you actually read the Quran?” I Can’t remember. Your cousins only know of this, and oh boy, how they give you that look! “See? We’ve turned out better than you after all! All these years you spent at the Islamic School, all the uncountable times you’ve been to Mecca and Medina, and all the Islamic ‘big-shots’ who knew and helped in raising you. All of this. And here you are. You don’t even pray! But us? We pray! You even question the simple rules! How could you? You simply turned out to be so disappointing!”

Who cares! But, deep down inside, you do care. Not about what they say. It’s about that feeling you had the other night when you heard the Imam in the nearby mosque praying. His voice suddenly hit deep. It felt like home. You try to think of what lead you to this, then the confusion starts again and big scary question marks start popping into your head. Stop. Put that away for a second. Just listen. Listen to the Imam. You don’t have to do anything. Just enjoy the peace, the calmness, what you loved to call: tranquility.

The prayer is over. And you’re still mesmerized at your desk, with your homework waiting to be finished. But the question that is waiting to be answered keeps ringing: Do you believe?

Sliver

Author: The Shrink Copyright © 2008Location:  Kuwait

It’s a fact that more women get referred for psychotherapy than men. The reasons vary, but the net result is that women have more faith in “talking therapy.”  This is a thin slice of the story of a man, his therapist and their shared state of nothingness.

This was a client never seen in the waiting room. Like spring breeze, he turned up at my door each week, precisely on time and unlike other clients. He entered the room with the graciousness of a cougar; he required no time to arrange himself or his thoughts.

At that point in my career, I had only seen a handful of male clients, and every one of my female clients traced her problems to a male in her world; father, partner, son, yet I never accomplished complete insight into the world of MAN.

Silences predominated our first 13 sessions. His silence spoke words when his actions were scarce. And then one week, he began talking and I began absorbing. I came to realize that this was the type of person who was always at odds with others’ expectations. 

He had the looks of a man yet the smile of a child. In his gaze lay years and years of recycled thought and renewed battles. He spoke of his life, being no ordinary rebel for he sought nothing but to solely exist. He had no particular cause to fight, for each day of his life was a battle won and lost between himself. 

He told me about his women, he liked them well made up with exquisite décor for he excelled in undressing them and baring their souls. His curiosity sucked him in; he observed, learned and relinquished. He repelled himself with equal finesse; smirking at their vanity, delighted with their insecurities. He told me that he never got attached to anyone or anything; he was able to leave a situation, or a relationship, in a flicker and never look back.  To him, everyone was an object or a medium of some sort. He allowed all forms of energy to flow through him as he held on to none.  His shared existence with the universe was never eternal and it had no guarantees. This was a man who knew what he wanted this minute but not the next. He told me about his wounds, almost a decade old but still fresh to the touch. Although not bleeding, this was an injury he was not going to let go of. He spoke of his disappointments the same way he described his delights; to him pain was a sweet experience.

As I took mental notes week in and week out, my psychiatrist brain stopped looking for clues and desperately tried to fit him in a classification. He delivered as I interpreted. He intently listened as I vocalized. The state of knowing was gradually dawning on both of us.  All his ventures connected to the stories I have heard. What other women described as abuse, he shrugged as denial. Pictures of negligence were portrayed as desired achievements. He was nobody’s victim. 

In 40 sessions I learnt that the truth was a state of mind, that forgiveness should come from within and that expectations always lead to disappointments. I became the solid rock that held his gaze and the soft wall that bounced his thoughts. I understood my blackness and his whiteness.

In my mind flashed crying images of my previous clients, of how they attempted to do the right thing the wrong way, of how they misread life signs and signals, and of how little prepared we all are for love.

Fully realizing that this would be an ending I would regret, I started preparing for ours way in advance. He seemed unscathed by it. He narrated the benefits of patient/therapist role-play; both exquisitely played by him for his own pleasure.

This was our last session and as I sat waiting in the room, the clock was ticking as I smiled gently. He was not coming was what was going through my mind, for he was no typical client and he did not believe in goodbyes.

The following week I received his farewell letter, neatly written and signed:  

“Thank you for being my guide and companion through this brief tour of my soul. I have enjoyed the silences with you. You reminded me of no one and that is how I will remember you. Till we meet in another venture and along a different track.

Your guide”

To claim I knew him was sinful, for his moods switched rapidly and so did his presence.

Valentine’s Day Crap

Author: Tantalize Copyright © 2008Location: Kuwait

Valentine’s Day is approaching. Stores are intelligently displaying multitudes of ornamented white, to pink, to red flowers and merchandise to catch the gullible consumer’s eye and deep pockets. From birds to bears to other stupid cupids will be hanging from the fore fronts of stores waiting for female monetary consumption. Men are the ones who will be paying of course, while women shadow their own desires behind expectations of receiving whatever they want. Ultimately, men become shadows as women have their whims aerobicized.

 

Florists have hiked up prices, set out the large teddy bears as bate while the most expensive bouquets are being pampered for the female craze of seeking affection through intricate and floral designs. Men are earthly taxed for a holiday that has nothing to do with Islam or Kuwaiti traditions, and a ritual which is over-animated all to appease and validate female emotions. It’s like watching a spectator sport being cunningly overrun and underhandedly swindled by women, for women, while gradually sapping out a man’s trueness as something just and as equal.

 

Hallmark and the rest of the gang of attention-grabbing and artistically-quoted cards are on high alert to consume and assume a new identity whenever they will be bought to make love to a woman’s heart. Armies of chocolate boxes are flaunted too. This is a time for women to be seduced emotionally and mentally chocolated without fearing an over intake of calories of guilt. Men will purchase them, of course, because most of their words aren’t languid, and fluid, and caressing enough to speak into the fairytale reality that many women would like to hear through card cliches. So, the cards and aphrodisiac chocolate are men’s temporary substitute and recess for channeling what women love to adore. One can actually compare it to swinging partners for a day since everything is heightened through other people’s words, decorations, and food intake all because the man couldn’t spit out the necessary words to his beloved the other days of the year.

 

The restaurants have made special arrangements for private parties when in fact it’s open to the public, but tickets to get in are hyperbolized at incredible prices. Why? The food is the same; same fried or frozen western crap that is microwaved and decorated on plates to seem fresh and worthy of such lofty deception. The couples are fooled by candle light to give an air of romance when little do most people know that “romance” comes from “Roman” and later the Romance Period in England where “romance” meant a transcendence of mind, not emotions. The men dish out the presents while rarely receiving as much in turn. The women’s egos are super-boosted, but it doesn’t necessitate an easy lay for the men. No, no, no. It’s like a woman’s day of revenge for all of the other days of the year that her man has forgotten to pay close and magnified attention to her narcissism and Barbie-doll whims. The single women in the background, meanwhile, will all be bitching about how they don’t need men in their lives when in reality they envy the couples surrounding them. The single men watching the single women watching the couples just want to get into their pants as fast as possible with the least expense needed. And since alcohol is illegal in Kuwait, a flock of mostly male ridden cars will be on their way to the chalets soon after the females’ curfews have been reached. At the chalets, the bottles of Johnny and Smirnoff for a worthy KD50 a pop are open to rejoice to each other’s manhood of temporary defeat. The men too get their Valentine’s Day uplift through drunkenness all because of a curse Valentine planted generations ago to have made women swoon over into a modern tradition.

 

If the “V” in Valentine’s Day could stand for something else, it would be “victory” for women for the day and “vaginated,” for the men. Happy Valentine’s Day everyone.

To Wear the Hajab or Not?

Author: Hadija Copyright © 2008
Location: Kuwait

When I first came to Kuwait, I was approached many times, and was asked the same question, over and over: “When do you think you will wear the hajab?” My reply was always the same: “I will wear the hajab when Allah gives me a sign to wear it.”

I didn’t want to make the same mistake that many women have made in the past. They were forced to wear it by their parents or husbands and not because it was ordained by Allah, and eventually, they would remove it, or be so miserable that they wouldn’t wear it in the correct manner. I finally wore the hajab, six years later. I can say, with confidence, that I put it on for all the right reasons. And I did get a sign from Allah, to wear the hajab. A strong, overwhelming feeling consumed me. The more I fought this feeling, the stronger it became.

I knew it was time to cover. So, I discussed it with my sister-in-law and asked her to show me how to wear it correctly. And when I put it on, it felt so natural. It has been four years since I began wearing the hajab, and it still feels comfortable. It is a part of me. And I am so glad that I waited until the right time.

This is my story, and I am not implying that all women should wait until they get a sign from Allah, before they cover their heads. This decision is between you, your family and Allah. But, I will add a comment or two. I have heard many people say to their daughters, “You are a Muslim and it is your duty to wear the hajab. You must cover yourself from the eyes of strangers because it is a big sin if you do not perform this duty.” Well, let me say to those who seem to be so concerned about the woman’s head being covered, but not so concerned about the other Islamic duties. Does the hajab prevent the woman and her children from being physically and verbally abused by her husband? Does the hajab prevent people (men and women) from performing charity? Does the hajab prevent maids, drivers and servants from being abused? And what about the unpaid wages of these employees and other low wage earners here in Kuwait, who are striking just to get what is owed to them? And do the greedy and selfish people, who are hoarding their money and failing to spend on their family, think that the hajab will save them from Allah’s punishment? And I can go on and on, but I think you get the idea.

As Muslims, we have many duties and responsibilities, and wearing the hajab is only a part of these duties. There are many women in Kuwait who do not wear the hajab, but they are decent women who perform their Islamic duties. And there are some women who do wear the hajab, but do not perform their duties in the correct manner, or at all. So, which one of these groups is performing the duties in the correct manner? If the hajab is the only thing that will save the Muslim from Allah’s punishment, maybe men should be wearing it, as well. It is not correct to assume that an uncovered woman is indecent, and that a covered woman is. Allah is the judge of all of us, and he knows all, hears all, and sees all. Whether you wear the hajab or not has no relevance to how well an individual performs his or her Islamic duties. As for myself, I know that I am not perfect, but I am comfortable in what I am doing.

The DV (Light Return)

Author: Devil Finch Copyright © 2008

Blog: www.devilfinch.blogspot.com

Location: Kuwait

 

“The original sin is to limit the DV. Don’t“ — Based on Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach.

 

I’m so tempted to start this post with a cliché. But no I shall write as sharp as a real devil finch. In fact, I should write as red as the Devil Finch – Cut-throat. And when the DV writes, you better wear a Ga7fiya, get your Misba7 ready, play an Indian lute and rap it out like a fuckin’ Brooklyn crack head while you sip on the finest French Chateau and dance Salsa.

 

On Magritte

He puts that fuckin apple on the DV’s Face and the DV picks through it. He stuffs the sky inside the DV’s eye and the DV flies through it. He bleeds the DV as a drop of rain on sad Brussels and the DV grows as wild as Oregon’s wilderness. He keeps constructing and the DV insists on destructing – or is it the opposite? The DV loves playin’ with the dead bastard. Or is it the other way around?

 

On Fai7a

“The thin-fine-blurry-bold line between a frozen hell and a burning heaven,” the DV would say if you ask him to describe Al-Fai7a. You’d think he’s – as usual – desperately trying to push the limit to the cliff. But trust him on this one because that’s where he mingled with the brain-washed Ekhwanchy, the Pattex sniffer, the son of a millionaire, mama’s boy, and all the little finches that learned to fly around with him to perch at “Ibn Rushd” public park. That’s where he got his first black eye and broke his first bone. That’s where he touched her hair for the first time, gave her the first kiss, and dared her to show her bunny and sit on his lap.  That’s where he was made.  If you insist to question the answer, refer to the only reliable witness who ironed the hell out of Fai7awis’ white masks for 20 years without burning a single Ghitra or Dishdada. Feel free to dig Jigannat out of his Karla grave, on which the tomb stone reads: “I should’ve been buried in Faihaa.”

 

On Mi Casa

Somehow the DV has developed an addiction to airports, hallucinating siestas at Eco chairs aboard airplanes, honest chats with strangers, and the random books he has picked 10 minutes before his flights. Mi Casa, as much as the DV hated national categorization, as violent as his revolt against the myth of nationalism, as strong as his urge to burn a flag on a national day, he loved settling at your eyes. 

“Why do you leave?” Mi Casa asks the DV a strikingly simple question, and he can see the lust for a complex answer in her eyes.

 

“Mi Casa, I do because you’re a home without a boundary. Because you build a cage for a devil finch and leave the door open; because you set a trap and intentionally forget to place the bait; because you have that smile of those who know better,” he answers with a husky voice as he plays Nancy Sinatra’s “Bang Bang” on his Oud. She takes that as an answer, lets it simmer over her heart and appreciates it as much as she appreciates DV’s freedom. She promises him to always be there and DV promises to always perch on her empty rifle.  The DV is her kite and she never lets that thread go. She’s the DV’s Mi Casa and he is a wicked Devil Finch. When he arrives from a wicked adventure, she sings with him and makes him a cozy place at her bed.

 

“Argue for your limitations and sure enough, they’re yours.” — Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah by Richard Bach.

 

The Goat Rider of the Wild Wild West

Author: Hayat Copyright © 2008
Blog: http://sherifa-kw.blogspot.com/
Location: Kuwait

When Bill was sixteen, God knows who told him once that he would see a thousand stars in the sky with naked eyes in a blind dark Texas night if he found the right hill to stand on. This person must have seen him several times struggling with his telescope to catch some cool views.

His father had bought the telescope for him on his fourteenth birthday, before he stopped using his Kuwaiti name and became Bill, which was quite surprising as he always used to get him thick, colorful books about different countries he never heard of. Probably, he had given up after Bill’s justification; giving such books to him and stimulating his imagination. But then accusing him of being a dreamer. He had missed something about the new gift; stars would not be less vicious than delicious stories of other countries in catalyzing the chemical reactions in his brain. They caused countless dreams and crazy hopes. It was so strange to other parents around that one day his father started to complain about his son’s intolerable hunger for books and hide the most “dangerous” ones. Back then Bill had already read the book “The Name of the Rose” by Umberto Eco. He knew that his father would not harm him, but still something in his mind whispered not to lick his fingers while reading and turning pages. His mother never could figure out why he always kept a wet sponge in his room.

The telescope never replaced his books, yet he did everything to make it look so to others, especially to his father. Though it gave him a similar pleasure, books brought out the same in him. While watching different star groups with different shapes in the sky, he could always see a woman lying on a soft black bed, her body framed by white flames.

He never liked chocolate even when he was a small kid, and he was never attracted to chocolate-skinned women either. After God knows whose words were uttered about the sky in Texas, he started to fantasize about cheating on his telescope. He would not need it much there since with a binocular he could enjoy a generous view of some white flames looking like one of the Dixie Chicks.

His childhood hero Cervantes would forgive him anyways, he would not end up in Spain as he planned, but Don Quixote and his squire Sancho Panza could be easily fit in cowboy pants. Also, the horse, skinny Rocinante, could be taken from one of the farms located on the right hill beneath the black bed.

Now, his father is not around, and the books have stopped inspiring new dreams in him. He reads about outer space sometimes and thinks about the top of the right hill where the black passage starts and ends. Every time he hears the song “Deep in the Heart of Texas,” he can’t help but change the lyrics in his mind: “All I could get was a goat*, a wet sponge and an almost forgotten name deep in the heart of the East.”

*the only animal that the Middle East reminded him of

It’s Time to Take Action: a Cry for Justice

As first published to the editor in Kuwait Times on May 21, 2007
Author: Hadija Copyright © 2008
Location: Kuwait

Sir,

    According to Islamic law, men are permitted to marry up to four wives, as long as they can provide for them equally and be fair to them all. I think some men in Kuwait have forgotten that law and need to be reminded. My husband has married three and has forgotten the Islamic law. He divorced the first one, married me, and after many years of marriage, he brings a third wife. His children from the first marriage suffered financial loss and hardship, and my children and I suffered financial loss and hardship, and now, we are suffering even more, while he is entertaining himself in another marriage. And he cannot afford this wife, and it is causing a big problem in our lives. We are currently going through divorce, and it is difficult on the children. I am the one pursuing the divorce, because I feel that this man will not settle down, and I want to at least ensure that my children have some financial support, even if it is through the court.

    A law needs to be passed, stating that if a man wants to marry a second or third wife, he must first prove that he can financially support both households, with no hardship on either side. And he must be forced to pay for his children until they complete university and are employed. And if he fails to pay support for the children, the court could pay the wife/wives the support and then the man should have to pay the court the amount owed, or face a penalty. I think these laws will ensure the security of the women and children of Kuwait and let these men realize that they will be held responsible for their actions.

    And, if the man leaves the country and gets married, without the knowledge of his wife/wives or the court, than he should face a strong penalty from the court. We are tired of being thrown away like last week’s garbage. We have our dignity and pride, and the men should not be allowed to do this to us so freely and openly. We are Islamic people, and we have Islamic rights, but some men are failing to follow the correct path.

    I hope that someone reads this and takes action to resolve this matter. It is becoming an epidemic in Kuwait and the divorce rate is soaring. Please help the women and children in Kuwait. We need your support, so please pass the laws to stop these men from destroying families. Force them to take responsibility for their family/families.

A wife and mother for wives and mothers in Kuwait

Asylum

Author: The Shrink Copyright © 2008
Location: UK

Her reputation had preceded her. She was known as one of the most dangerous women in the country. It was also known that she was selective with whom she talked to, she had been in the system long enough to know that professionals came and went, that they were more interested in what she had done rather than who she was.

I must say that I intentionally avoided her my first two weeks in that unit. Every time I had passed near her door, she would shoot me a look that I could only respond to with a frightened smile. I didn’t believe I was in any danger, but I believed I needed more time to prepare for the eventful meeting.

Then one morning, she stepped out of her room escorted by three nursing staff, passed me in the corridor, and asked me if I was enjoying my time in the unit. I knew this was the time to propose an introductory chat for 4pm the following afternoon.

From then on, we would meet on a regular basis. She spoke of history that would not be found in books. She told me about her upbringing and her demons; I was humbled. I began to realize that her infamous reputation did not live up to her human side but more of the murderous one. She was known for what she had done and perpetually had done, but no one knew what she was frightened of.

In a unit where clients had to assume a place in an imaginary hierarchy, there was great pressure on her to stay in the top echelon. She had no tattoos or body piercing to display her vanity, she was the eldest and she had no friends. But, her murderous intent was her tool. If she continued to make threats to kill herself or anyone else, then she would remain frightening.

Then, karaoke night took place, a musical activity arranged and conducted by clients themselves. Despite being on call that night, I made a conscious effort to spend a good time in the unit. I wanted to observe, listen and learn. The music was loud and they all took turns singing their favorite tunes; the mood was joyous. Then it was her turn, and heavy silence fell on the room as anticipation filled the air. She declared she didn’t need background music and started to sing “Paper Roses.” I didn’t realize that I had tears running down my face till one of the nurses pointed it out; I was taken aback by her baby face features, hardened by years and multiple cuts, her toothless mouth uttering the softest words of this unremarkable love song.

All I could think was: How and what do you know about love? And why is it that even if we don’t experience the real core shaking that comes with true love, we are adamant of its deserting pain?

Kaleidoscope News

It has been 2.5 years since the inception of Kaleidoscope. There have been a spectrum of posts from fiction to non-fiction from writers across the globe. Most of the short articles refer to lifestyles, dilemmas, gender issues amongst many others that are as creatively controversial as they are candid in mirroring Arab and Muslim consciousness in Kuwait, the Gulf region, and the rest of the world.

Many of the writers are young and developing while others are seasoned and more developed. In all, we are trying to build something that hopefully one day might be noted for its substance and character. If anyone is interested in revealing their literary talent, please feel free to send in your submissions to: inkaleilodoscope@hotmail.com

Thank you.

Huwwa

Author: Harmonie 22 Copyright © 2008
Blog: http://theperceptionpoint.wordpress.com/
Location: USA

You Are
the Love Language
whose Name is sung
on the lips of lovers that be
and quivers on the lips
of lovers that would be
gender to gender genderless
all possibilities in all its forms of
solidarity
like to like and like to all

You
manifesting lovingly
through sweet songs sung
in swooning dialogue of lovers that be

You
the dialogue of lovers that would be
dialecting deliciously sensually
love tools

You
pour through them
by way of lips and tongue
turning into word that is heard
perhaps Your tongues touchingly taste
brushing lovingly against one another
slowly and in haste
against Yourself
in their kisses and in their words
aware
God Self-reflected
in one another
made aware
by the sounds of Your words
muttering Your Love Line Life Line Name
marking the reference point that’s best
for the One of All to discern itself
as one and the same
with these words in highest trust
truth that does move
moves the highest love
to the Highest Exalted Lover

You
You and me before the rest then all truth shall manifest
You moving mutes into ecstatic tongues
speaking undivided each to each
speaking the code that rolls off the lips
that have been blessedly kissed with Your Name

You a language without fear
a vocabulary without shame
no fear no shame for You are to blame
in ecstasy we utter Your Ecstatic Name
in seeking You I found me
how can this be true
You You You
Are the music that fills my inner ear
the One Primal Sound
that resounds through all the spheres
You Are
the Love Language
whose Name is sung on the lips of lovers that be
and quivers on the lips of lovers that would be

You
a sound
that cannot be contained
a Light
that by mere man
cannot be fully explained
a vocabulary
without the words fear or shame
Your love for me and my love for You
is a love language
one and the same
over and over and over
I call Your Name
You…

(Photo: copyright www.stillsinflux.com)

Loose Rap

Author: Gay in Kuwait Copyright © 2008
Blog: www.gayinkuwait.blogspot.com
Location: Kuwait

I have always loathed the “ganging up” sequence of humans, especially sheeply humans.

I was astounded when I heard today that a law was about to be passed that would jail homosexuals based on their “doubtful” appearances. Of course at first I simply ignored it as another fad, spread around to inspire and liven up people’s conversational habits. The usual arguments of the abominations of God, and how God would not create such imperfect creatures, abnormalities, children being affected bla bla. The usual banter, which regardless of how senseless it is to me, is understandable coming from people who don’t know better.

I don’t believe in God, I don’t believe in a creator, I use the term “god” loosely and the phrase “Oh my god” for a purely dramatic effect. So, naturally, I wanted to explode in response at how absurd their arguments were. I would have asked them politely to take away religion for a second and focus on human nature. But of course, how could I? Being ganged up on by two others, I managed to hold my ground by only placing myself on a higher plane within the same cloud. Basically, I just became a more intelligent form of “them”, the leading sheep, basically. It was a struggle, definitely, being ganged up by the illusionary entity of God, of course, and the Koran, and the Prophet’s sayings, and his disciples’ actions. It was a ridiculous battle that I should have avoided, because honestly, it was draining. I didn’t exactly win the argument, I was tempted to say “fuck God, focus!” on numerous occasions, but I held my tongue –”Thank God.” I managed to leave the argument with a hint of; “Is he gay?” question in the air and; “Why does he care so much?” question, of course. And my face, it lies betrayed, no matter how I try, I can’t hide a secret. I could feel their eyes piercing through me, only though the slits of my eyes though, as if they knew my secret. But, it’s hard to say if they did or not.

I used the following arguments. Sanctioning human activities will of course lead to an explosive retaliation on their part, and severer sanctions on the government’s, which will eventually lead to their downfall. It is a violation of human rights to fucking persecute a person based solely on appearance and disregard whether offensive action was taken by that person. I honestly do not lean towards the homosexual style here in Kuwait, it disgusts me quite frankly. But I don’t want to jail them; maybe give them some fashion tips, though.

What benefits would such actions from the government bring? Perhaps a few cowardly ones will submit to the heterosexual movement, through intense self-therapeutic activities, or if they decide to pursue a life of servitude to God. Otherwise, they will continue to flourish.

Given the social nature of this country, and the insanely rapid spread of gossip, if a homosexual were to be captured, his entire family would be implicated. What’s the use of causing so much suffering?

The fact is homosexuality is banned in this god-forsaken shit-hole. Homosexuals are jailed if caught in the act. Another fact is that homosexuality is part of nature; its occurrence is evidenced in all species. Furthermore, homosexuality makes sense, because to put it simply (because I am tired from work and can barely articulate), homosexuality is the consequence of heterosexuality. I wish they would just understand that.

Will You Divorce Me?

Author: Jasem Copyright © 2008
Blog: www.extension5151.wordpress.com
Location: Kuwait

I think one of the major attributes to the society that we are witnessing with our own eyes today is the product of a broken Kuwaiti family. I have heard once that the divorce rate in Kuwait has reached the 60 plus percentile levels. Even if that number was wrong or was in line with the divorce rate, for instance, in the U.S. (51%), it is still an insane number. Just think of it, the chances of getting divorced in 2007 is so high that it’s no longer a calculated process or a flip of a coin where the chances are 50/50. This is where stats get really serious.

I think, when it comes to this society, it has to directly do with the way we are raised and with the kind of civil decay we are witnessing. I am in a constant mind-search trying to make sense of everything; I guess I was born this way, and trust me, I won’t stop until I reach a conclusion that I can really believe in which would make me content. The one thing that mind-boggles me is: Why is there such a high divorce rate in Kuwait? Mind you, these are only the declared divorces. There are so many cases of multiple wives, or emotional divorces (parents sleeping in separate beds). Also, it’s not as easy as in the western world for women to get divorced in Kuwait. The process can get really ugly. I’m sure many of you know exactly what I mean. Which means, if you can calculate the declared divorces, give the women who want out a chance, and add in the emotional divorces, you’ll have a divorce rate that is at a socially dangerous range. And, it is no longer a matter only to be discussed between people sitting and having a cup of coffee.

So, I propose this as one of the main catalysts that is fueling the problem. I see all around Kuwait lobbyists trying to segregate women and men from schools, trying to segregate classes at the university level and at every possible way they can get their hands on. What they have forgotten is the essence of every successful marriage which is communication. What we hear a lot is a household of a very aggressive or demeaning husband who cares not to communicate but cares only to demand what he thinks as his righteous deeds from his wife. The wife becomes not a companion, a friend, or a mother (in its purest sense), but she becomes ‘the wife,’ a term used commonly between men in this society.

You see, when you segregate men from women at such a young age (middle to high school), you are taking away the true essence of teaching a boy and girl how to communicate with one another. Enter the college phase, when boys and girls are in touch with their emotional side, remove that too and you find men driving down on Gulf Road like wolves looking for their pretties in the midst of the coldest winters. It is so sad.

Let me ask you this question: If you want to segregate men from middle to high school and all throughout college but want them to get along well at work and get married, do you think you are giving our society the chance to move on and create happy families and bonds that are truly unbreakable? What a shame!

I’m going to talk too much about politics that I promised myself I wouldn’t do as an agenda to starting a blog. But, I’ll tell you what. I drove today, minding my own business on the streets, and one car after another was filled with boys in their twenties driving like idiots, acting like animals, and showing no regard to anyone on the streets. The cause was that a few girls were just driving home from a lovely Kuwaiti morning outing.

Once called “the Pearl of the Middle East,” Kuwait now brings tears to my eyes.