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.

Saving Isaac*

Author: Devil Finch Copyright © 2007
Location: Kuwait
Blog: www.devilfinch.blogspot.com

Confinement:
I heard my complexion for the first time.
Brilliantly simple it seemed: Alif Lam Meem.

Accusation:
A one-winged-bug flew around me while I loved thinking that I fly.
Myself coffined in my own rug knowing that I didn’t: Fie.

Judgment:
“O fantasy, you that at times would snatch us so from outward things
We notice nothing
Although a thousand trumpets sound around us
Who moves you when the senses do not spur you?“

Justification:
I hold my complexion neatly folded in my hands for those who dare: While Ishmael clung on my neck, 16*. I walked murmuring the Spider along the road until it had worked its web all the way to my exiled tongue and farther more, where a question mark grew so deep and large throwing its blue shadow over whoever’s chain-smoking these thoughts at home.

Knocking at my absence,
Abraham waited at my door.
“Does he insist to ever-enter?” I thought.
Looking through one eye,
I asked in Hebrew for the code:
“What’s aboard a bug?”
In Arabic Abraham answered:
“Don’t you people see?”
I ran to dust off my ornamented rug…
The window was all I could see…
Nothing else counted…
Not even the glass-challenged bug…
Through that window, I commanded: Fly oh my, my dirty, decayed, rug. Fly.

Post-confinement:
Riding the same spider that ate the bug’s left wing: Nooun.
Isaac, where’ll we be soon? 34*

*16. Ishmael] Isaac
*34. Isaac] Ishmael
* With lines from Dante’s Divine Comedy, (Purgatorio XXVIII).

Another Kind of Eidiyya

Author: Harmonie 22 Copyright © 2007

Blog: http://theperceptionpoint.wordpress.com/

Location: USA

 

Why. Don’t. We. Ever .Really. Talk. About. It.

Heroin. Addiction.

Say it.

Your mouth won’t shatter.

Shattered is the heroin addict who will sell you for a desperate five-Dinar fix.

Shattered is the gaze of a dead brother’s eyes in your dreams telling you heaven on earth is in a 50cc syringe of brown bliss and a blessing is finding a good vein. Shattered is the friend you once had who was kicked down by life’s boot and now only seeks out sweet oblivion to numb their pain. Shattered is the wife when her husband tells her he doesn’t need her, just his needle. Shattered is the child that grows up without a father but a slumped-over coach potato talking to them while their eyes are closed. Shattered is the family who tells everyone that the valiant boy died in a fight defending friends. Shattered is the family that lies to itself and pretends it never happened. Shattered is the family that lied and yet must endure speculations about the cause of death, anyway.

Shattered is the mother on the second day of Eid when she has to go identify her son’s body in the morgue and wonders why there’s not a wound on his body, just a bruised chest and nose and swollen blue-bitten lips. Shattered are his friends with bruised hands who go visit her after the funeral and can’t look her in the eye and tell her that he didn’t know his dose after fasting for one month, that the marks on his body were their last futile poundings and pinchings trying to bring him back. Shattered are the friends who must live with choosing not to take him to the hospital because then they would be screwed too and so dumped his body in an empty lot instead.

Shattered is the rare person who gets caught and (maybe) miraculously gets rehabilitated and has to live under the stigma of social pariah. Shattered are the people in the heroin addicts’ wake who try to get them to quit, not understanding that no one can ever force anyone to quit. Shattered is the impatient ‘I-waited-for-you-for-ten-minutes’ father in the mosque who finds the body of his fourteen year-old son curled around an empty syringe in the bathroom stall and curses God for giving him too much patience.

Shattered is the dying patient who is given a kick and an aspirin and told to get better quick or else. Shattered are the companies that choose not to implement drug-testing policies because it will cause more problems than solving them. Shattered is the perception that sticks drug addicts into mental institutions and jails instead of rehabilitating them.

Shattered is the pointing hand that jumps to slap and stalls to heal.

Shattered is the heroin junkie who wonders every day what life would have been like if they never did drugs. Shattered is the person who walks away from these words in fear of association. Shattered is the person who shivers from reading these words because they know exactly just what I mean. Shattered is the rejecting mind because it learned the hard way that trying to reform a heroin addict is as easy as bringing back the dead. Shattered is the person who wrote this.

I Don’t Know

Author: L Copyright © 2007

Location: Kuwait

I don’t know what I’m doing anymore. It’s not about being tough! I fucking want to yell out to this world. I hate it, I hate my life, I hate this life. I hate this world! Why the fuck am I here? I am missing the point of it all. Is there even a point? Seriously, is there a point why I’m here, why I am who I am? Why am I alive? Why am I in this life? What’s the point of me losing my mind when I can give up at my own will and seriously be a lot happier; way happier? What is the damn point! Why am I even alive? To recognize God? I know he’s there! What else is there? Fate?

Maybe it’s about time I chose my own fate, damn it! When am I going to start making my own choices? When will I decide? People have choices in life. But, where the fuck are mine? God gives and takes, and gives and takes, and gives and takes. What if you don’t want anything? Why does he take? He has everything! Why are we chess pieces in this life? We have a mind of our own, but no power to control our lives or fates! Are we robots? We blindly do things not knowing the true answers. What are the answers, damn it? I want to know!

And I want my grandma back right now! Why did he take her away? What did we do that is so bad to violate his laws to take her life away? It’s like a sick way of saying, “You never know what you have until you lose it.” I learned my mistake. Now bring her back. If he loved her so much, why couldn’t he just let her be? Why take her away if he has everything? I don’t have faith.

What if he didn’t exist? No one knows the true history behind this bloody world. Science is the only thing that can come close to it! Science is able to prove everything. History books cannot be trusted! People invent religions and rewrite books and change rules. What if he’s not there? What if this whole thing was made up? The Quran determined a lot of things that are happening now in the future, but it’s broad, as broad as a psychic telling you about your life.

Aren’t all of our lives the same in a way? Your horoscope, fortune cookies; they all make sense. Disasters are bound to happen; every person has the same weakest points. Similar thoughts, similar everything. There’s always a good and bad thing, rules in life, family, school, wherever you are, the rules are the same. You do good, you get something good in return (right!). You do bad, you’ll get bad.

The “Holy” Quran doesn’t say anything new, and no one ever knows if it’s true or not! There are people who pray to God and ask for something, and when they get it, they go; “Oh, that’s because of God!” What if it was just luck? Superstition? Because sometimes you are one hell of a good person. You pray to God, and you never get what you want. Bad luck? God takes the lives of younger ones because they are mostly “loved,” and God gives long lives to the ones he mostly loves. Contradiction? What does he like? “Khair al ber ma qal wa dal?” Oh really? Haven’t we had cases that contradicted this like; “khair al amoor al wasa6?”

Let’s get a drink! I’m not getting drunk. I’m just allowing a mellow mood for a nice conversation. Fine, no alcohol, but don’t you think any good ruling system would say no drugs, no alcohol, and no sex? Everyone knows people get out of control. Unpredictable. So saying “no” to all of these things eliminates a lot of bad things from happening. I respect that system.

Pork is bad for you when science says the opposite. Contradictions! Well, coffee and cigarettes are bad for you, too. Too much red meat is bad for you also, so why pork? Is it because someone was pissed at Christian westerners who decided to make rules for Arabs? We eat cow, they eat pig? We marry more than one, they marry one. They have alcohol, we have multiple wives. Is this going to determine that I will be going to hell? Should I be afraid to express these thoughts because, uh-oh, something bad is going to happen? Or, that I may convince myself that if I go pray now, everything will be alright?

Well I prayed. And I didn’t get anywhere, so many times over! When I say; “Ok, I’m taking God with me for good luck,” I get the worse luck! But, when I have a stupid object lying around and decide, “This is going to be my good luck charm,” everything goes well. Oh, but that’s right! It’s a supposed test! God tests us every day! But we don’t know how well we’re doing since how well do we determine how well we are as people? That goes for the importantly good decisions we make, even though the best decisions sometimes lead to worse things.

What is this rollercoaster? What the hell are we supposed to do? Now I feel; Great ‘L’ you just spoke your damn mind. Expect worse things to come to you. I could lose life at any second because God controls it, and this is the last thing I, or anyone else, would have said before death. Good job! Smart thinking.

I’m just confused. I have no one to blame so I’m just taking it out on God for now. Rollercoaster! I have just realized I’ve been talking for so long. The insanity! I would appreciate it if I could get just one good answer. Just one!

Visions and Windows: When I Can’t Afford to See.*

Author: Devil Finch Copyright © 2007

Location: Kuwait

Blog: www.devilfinch.blogspot.com

Through the window, the sidewalks are Pavlov experimenting on corpses disguised in heavy dark jackets by melting their determined steps in the fluffiness of green ice. All drains to Wall Street except for Walt Whitman’s tear frozen in the left eye of an illiterate saint.

Resisting Pavlov with her bed on her back, the saint leads an army of outlawed words that managed to escape the death camp of “sanity.” She yells a division out: Hatmas of Ma flock together…Behold stranger we’re the newcomers. A French woman holding up an iceberg with her right hand yells back: Crazy Saint, they would put up a battle if they were alive.

Meanwhile, CNN is busy covering the rediscovery of a Sad-Dame while I-Rack is behind the window watching it all live. At the same at a split second, I make the decision to flip the channel. A 9-year-old Mohammed wakes up for the thousand and first time. Just like the first time, he possesses the ability to go through all kinds of things including the rusted barrel he was hiding behind. He looks at his little abandoned ex-body, 5.56 mm multiplied by 9 blue iron birds sleeping inside. They’ll wake up annoyingly cold before a mourner dares to close Mohammed’s wide and black ex-eyes.

Why should I mourn? The vanished power of the usual reign? Mohammed thinks looking at his abandoned body. He, then, starts venturing the streets of old Jerusalem singing: Hatmas of ma flock together…

From the wreckage of a just “suicidal” blown bus comes a voice: Behold stranger we’re the newcomers. That is the voice of 12-year-old Moses as he emerges from fire. Through ambulances, frustrated soldiers and mourning mothers, he slowly walks toward Mohammed with a smile on his face — A smile of those who are blessed to know better. They hug resting their right shoulders under each other faces. I do not hope to know again the infirm glory of the positive hour, Moses whispers while Mohammed’s eyes closed watching a silver screen playing the explosion of his brother again and again and again…as they hug. Moses gently holds Mohammed’s head between his hands passing his palms over his cheeks to wipe the tears. The crying boy smiles remembering that he knows better. And following the sitting sun, they walk together. Just as they pass through the Neo-Warsaw-Wall…

I Click my PC‘s mouse to read history: “In Acre four soldiers raped a girl and murdered her and her father. In Jaffa, soldiers…raped one girl and tried to rape several more. At Hunin…two girls were raped and then murdered. There were one or two cases of rape at Tantura, south of Haifa. There was one case of rape at Qula…At the village of Abu Shusha…There were four female prisoners, one of whom was raped a number of times. And there were other cases. Usually more than one soldier was involved. Usually there were one or two Palestinian girls. In a large proportion of the cases the event ended with murder.” The “leftist” Israeli historian goes on listing a crime after a crime.

“Massacres,” “Mass expulsions,” “Ethnic cleansing,” “War crimes.” I feel too sick, but I am not sick because: My guts are the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions which the leopards reject.

I force my eyes back to the screen. “You can’t make an omelet without breaking eggs. You have to dirty your hands.” Our leopard- I mean historian- comments on the process of making an omelet while licking his hands. Omelet? I thought he was talking about Human beings. Human beings? Nah, he’s just talking about some Omelet with beans. Beans? Too much asking. Geez!

I’ll tuck myself into bed. After all, I need some sleep.

For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not here,

The fake Picasso portraits whisper from my bedroom walls.

I really don’t want to hear.

The whispers get louder overcoming

My scream, “I’m not here.”

I close my eyes hoping that I’ll disappear.

If I sink deep in darkness,

Maybe I wouldn’t hear or be here. Yet

the vibration of whispers invade my ears:

How could an Arab sleep?

Isn’t an Arab guilty if he sleeps?

Isn’t an Arab guilty if he doesn’t sleep?

Isn’t an Arab

Guilty?

An Arab sleeps…

An Arab Dreams and yet

Isn’t he guilty?

If he is Muslim, does he dream?

If he does, isn’t he guilty?

If…

Doesn’t.

Is…

Guilty or guilty?

I SLEEP AND I DREAM of a crucified that comes to me with

An arm to the easts.

The other to the wests.

Planted at emerging horizons

Topographically mistaken for opposite ends.

As usual, I defend myself even when asleep: I’m not the secular Muslim who betrayed his people with Zionists both seen and unseen. I’m not the pretentious poet who sold his soul to the devil pretending that I play violin. I’m not the Arab who blows himself for terror and from fear. I’m only a human being, my tongue happens to be Arabic, and I love to pretend that I’m so poetic. So pathetic, I sometimes rub my eyes with my heart hoping to melt a frozen tear. I’m the forbidden fruit yet peeled and diced. What do you want from me, Christ? Though drowned in darkness, I still hear the crucified: There are numerous prophecies of an impending explosion due to the stalemate. Even if they turn out to be true, we must plan constructively for the future, since neither improvisation nor violence are likely to guarantee the creation and consolidation of …and before he finishes the answer…Behold stranger we’re the newcomers… we’re the newcomers…Behold…

Mahatmas flock together…flock together…together…Mahatmas.

I wake up frightened and feeling guilty. I run to look through the window and to the street from where the yelling is coming. Oh crazy saint. It’s always you raving nonsense to wake me up. I posses my dark jacket getting ready to emerge into Pavlov while my exiled conscious sings:

Because I do not hope to turn again

Because I do not hope

Because I do not hope to turn

* With lines from T.S. Elliot, “Ash-Wednesday” ; Quotes from Ari Shavit “The Chilling Interview of Benny Morris,” Ha’aretz, January 9, 2004; Sentences from Edward Said, “A Reply to Arab Intellectuals,” Le Monde Diplomatique August-September 1998.

Absence

Author: H Copyright © 2007

Every sunrise I watch brick and mortar. Every sunset I scrutinize steel and iron ore. Every week and every month and year I witness them pumping and thumping, radically changing and ghettoizing Kuwait’s landscape. Mostly, vertically. Beautifully architectural commercial buildings to incompetent-looking bland structures are stretching skyward, as if struggling to reach God, like mosque minarets. They are neck-stretching one another, shoulder to shoulder, in too close for comfort proximity. And each added floor that is monotonously being added on top of the other in every building is another free space for the grabbing, because the concrete stocking up is being paid for by the small plots of ground below. Air isn’t. Sufficient spatial-planning down below, however, is augmented into near oblivion like a shadow, or a hauntingly nagging infrastructural ghost that is hard to shake.

Like the chunk and chunk sounds of oil rigs pounding and squeezing black golden oil out of mother nature’s bellied desert for hefty foreign consumption, foreign workers and the desert-oiled money that is connivingly financed in Kuwait is sapping underqualified and undertreated rural Egyptian workers with now Chinese, Nepalese, and Indian laborers from sunrise to sunset for the sake of a Kuwaiti identity that is based on unKuwaiti innovation. From schools, hospitals, roads and marinas, Kuwait is being built by a foreign entity that is contracted by Asian desperation, which is herded on morning buses like sardines, and an Arabic, Islamic inequality that is living and preaching otherwise.

Like the superficial majestic designs of the new buildings, in the shadows, social unity is being attempted by the minority. National songs, political gibberish, and rumor-mongering are flaunted, as hallow confidence that is built by a solid foreign presence. They all have fabricated our Kuwaiti infrastructure but without producing an authentic national identity. There is little — if nothing — Kuwaiti about any of our buildings, even the mud houses before the oil boom had spelled the same. They were mostly reciped by blood-staking manual laborers who have had little to do with anything Kuwaiti; anything Arabic or Islamic. The structures have all been sanctioned into creating a myth of an identity that is more genuinely absent than present. It’s one that is more fictitious yet presently, and comfortably, rewritten in Kuwaiti’s history books, while leaving absent what is true.

This perfectly echoes how such a country, for example, can eat such large portions of rice as a main staple when the same country is too arid to grow any form of rice. Rice has long been imported from a culture we have adopted – stolen – from India, like chia (tea), into our supposed Kuwaitization; lingo and all.

Prostituted

Author: Tantalize Copyright © 2007

Location: Kuwait