Resolved.

It is 22:10 here in Saudi. Some countries have already celebrated the new year of the Gregorian calendar and are thinking about what it will bring. While I am not a huge new year's eve person (I've never even been to a legit new year's party) I still like to reflect on things that have happened in my life.

The new year is a time of lists. Here are some lists for you and for me.

Part I: 2010 Past

1. I fell in love and out of love with the idea of love, not with any person in particular.

2. I listened to new music and old music that I had rediscovered. It brought me much happiness.

a. New music I enjoy: the soundtrack to How to Train Your Dragon and Shakira's Sale El Sol

b. Old music I enjoy again: the song Ammaneh by Diana Haddad and the soundtrack to Notre Dame de Paris (I downloaded it on iTunes yet again).

3. I started life as a grad student in Massachusetts, in a new apartment, new school, with people I had never met before. I have never been in a happier place in my life.

4. I found a new love: smoking.

5. I got a new pet fish named Sten, who I named after the Dragon Age calendar.

6. I made new friends on the internet and met a couple of them in person and greatly enjoyed their company.

7. I met some of the worst, chauvinistic men on the internet and in person I have ever met in my 21 years of life.

8. I got better grades than I have ever gotten since I started university schooling.

9. My weight went up and down like a mountain range, and slowly, I have become more comfortable with the fact.

10. I started this blog and rekindled my love for writing.

Part II: 2011 Future

1. I want to fall in love with love again.

2. I want to write more blog posts of higher quality.

3. I want to do better in my classes than I did in the previous semester, and push myself even harder.

4. I want to limit smoking to a community activity rather than a solo one.

5. I want to go on longer walks in new places.

6. I want to travel to new states within the US and, money permitting, to at least one new place outside of the US.

7. I want to make new friends and create joyful, beautiful memories with old friends.

8. I want to keep in touch with my family and keep those bonds strong with whomever it is possible.

9. I want to read more books and have my eyes opened over and over by new worlds I would never consider outside their pages.

10. I want to grow as a person and involve myself with others who I care about and who care about me, as I am nothing without the rest of the world.

Part III: Conclusion

This coming year is about keeping the positivity that grew in the year 2010 and also about destroying the negativity. Bad things should not cloud my life, nor should beautiful things bar the way to truth. I want to grasp reality. My search for knowledge needs to continue, as should my writing.

And it will, without a doubt.

Happy New Year, everyone!

By the fig and the zeitoun; by Mount Sinai; and this city of security...

This was written in Frankfurt airport. Due to the internet being full of rubbish there, I could only publish it on the site later. As this entry is with respect to a dream of mine, I have a dream - that one day, travellers will be able to use the internet in Frankfurt airport. Amen.

On my flight from the USA's Boston to Germany's Frankfurt, I reread Zeitoun by Dave Eggers in its entirety. I have never read anything by him before, and he has now become my idol. I want to do what he did with Zeitoun; it's my biggest dream. 

What a beautiful book! What I love most about it is Egger's style of storytelling. It has great emotion, but the words don't necessarily shove you in one direction. It sounds like someone has described the facts, and the facts speak for themselves. 

I can never be Eggers because I am not him. However, his writing in Zeitoun opened my eyes to a new direction I could take my writing. If I want to write memoirs, or write biographies, I might want to take some inspiration from Eggers and his approach. I know it is hard for me to separate myself from writing, and sometimes I like injecting myself into the narration, but Egger's style has taught me that sometimes words do all the work. I want my words to work more like his, but still be true to who I am.

I am very impressed and fascinated with Eggers' fountain of research. He interviewed so many different people and gives us rich data to process. I wonder how his interviews with Kathy and Abdulrahman went, how they were conducted. He must have asked great questions to allow such great information to pour out. I can feel that he picked up on important subtleties in each person's character - Zeitoun's stubbornness, Kathy's fiery spirit, etc. I wonder how his editing went, too - there are so many anecdotes within the writing that add layers of intensity and a breadth of knowledge about the people involved. How can one possibly choose which ones work best? He did an amazing job.

Eggers is obviously a journalist, one can see it in his style, but that did not make the story dry by any means. In fact, he allowed the heart of the story to beat within Zeitoun's pages. I admire Eggers so much right now for this. His writing is subtle and extremely effective. He didn't need to use fancy flashing lights and colours; as I said before: his words did it all. 

When I read a book twice, the first time is usually enjoyable (unless its really bad) and it is actually the second time that really allows me to give an opinion. Either the book shows its flaws, or it becomes even better and shows complexities I did not notice before. Zeitoun was the latter, and more. The second time I read it, I felt the presence of the people Eggers wrote about. It was like we were acquaintances before, but now, we were close friends. I knew Kathy, Abdulrahman, their children, Ahmed, Todd, Yuko…I was even more connected. I cried more on the plane than I did reading it in the sanctity of my Massachusetts room. My emotions towards the characters intensified.

When I get to Riyadh, I am going to shove Zeitoun into my Mom's face and ask her to read it. It's an amazing book, and I know she'll like it. I would love everyone to read it, to feel the devastation, horror, and love that Eggers placed within his words; the emotions that were dominating the story of Zeitoun and his family.  People need to read and understand as much as they can about what happened. I think it's incredibly important.

I have another, more personal use for Zeitoun. From now on, when people ask me what I dream of doing, I'm going to say: "I want to write memoirs, or biographies. Have you ever read Zeitoun, by Dave Eggers? I want to do what he did there. You should read it. It's brilliant."

Aló, aló ¡Sigo aquí!

I've been in Massachusetts since the beginning of September and many things have changed since then. What is most surprising to me is that I have met such a diverse group of people who I have connected with on many levels, sometimes deeply and sometimes only on the surface.

The United States is a place where eclectic people from all over the world meet. It can be refreshing sometimes, because it produces open-minded people. It can be frustrating when others, with a more xenophobic mind, close themselves off to "foreigners" forever. All in all, however, I'm glad I have chosen to come here. Despite the great uncertainties I faced this summer, I find that being brave and following my gut has saved my life. I don't know what I would have done if I stayed in Saudi for this whole time.

Let me ask you a question, now: would it surprise you if I said that I am in the airport, waiting for my flight to Riyadh via Frankfurt? Let me also tell you why you shouldn't be so surprised.

I miss Saudi. I've expressed that recently. I miss my parents, I miss the peace, I miss the culture, and I miss other material things like food or shopping or the TV I used to watch. I'm going back because I was offered an opportunity and I took it. I didn't have to, but I did.

Another thing is that this is the very last time, for a very long time at least, that I will be able to go to Riyadh. The parental home base is shifting. They are leaving this desert for a different landscape. I wish them well, but this means that my time in Saudi is about to end. The desert where I regained my bearings is not going to be my halfway house anymore.

If this is the last time I see Saudi, I'll be very, very sad. Even though I did not have a chance to integrate into Saudi society, I wish I did and I feel like I didn't have a chance. There are a couple of people who I have mentioned before in various places in my blog who I am going to miss a lot. I miss them by being here in the US where it is hard for me to contact them or for them to contact me. What will happen if I do not have a reason to go to Saudi? It's not that I can just take a holiday there. It doesn't work that way...

I also know that when I leave Riyadh this time, when/if I ever come back, the Riyadh I lived in will not be the same, and I will not be the same. I have changed already, and I wonder how that will affect Riyadh when I arrive there (hopefully) tomorrow.

Sitting here, trying to think about what I want to achieve in my last trip to Riyadh as I know it is extremely difficult for me right now, for several reasons. First of all, Logan airport is playing the cheesiest Christmas music ever with some of the most terrible arrangements I have ever heard. Secondly, I am still groggy from taking my medication last night, and I have a severe headache. Thirdly, I keep feeling like I left something at home that I needed to bring with me. Lastly, there are just so many things swirling around in my brain that I can barely piece things together.

A tornado of sand. Spirals of dryness circling in the harsh winds. Dunes being dismantled and recreated in waves. That is my mind right now. I am seeing the unclear desert landscape through a filter through which I can barely see. The promise of being in Saudi one last time is the glare of the sun escaping between the bursts of sand.

Sometimes I wonder if the desert remembers that I still live there. It needs to know that I never leave, that I am always here even when the storm gets rough. It is of my opinion that this trip therefore needs to become a meaningful reminder to the desert, and to me. Let's hope the connection becomes stronger.

All She Can Bring is Portable and Smokable

I made a little book as an assignment for a class. It represents my identity.

I thought I would share it with all of you, so I took some pictures. It's not very long. I hope you appreciate looking at it as much as I have loved creating it.

When writing the words and thinking of how to present it, I thought purely in metaphor as it was a requirement for the assignment. I am sure you can figure out what the symbols mean, but here are some things to point you in the right direction:

- Who is talking and what do we know about them? Why is that important?
- What is the stitching about?
- What do the "smokables" symbolise?

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

Fin.

Fin.

Fin.

Phoebus veut dire Soleil

Today, I was stabbed with an emotional sword to the heart.

When I started this blog, it was when I was living in Saudi. My life was as bipolar back then as it is now: I wavered between pain and resentment to happiness and appreciation. I'm still doing the same thing, all the time. I have to admit, despite my keeping track of the Saudi blogosphere and news, I have not felt a tug from Saudi for a while.

Today, a simple phone call from my Mom made me need to go back to Saudi right now, today.

It's not that I dislike it here. In fact, being in the Boston/Cambridge area has been an exhilarating and educational experience so far. My graduate school program is opening my mind to new experiences, I have made new friends, and I have discovered new places. Here, I can hop on a train or a bus and get to wherever I want to be. It's incredibly different than my life in Riyadh, where I was stuck in my villa just about every day. It is refreshing and liberating.

Today, I felt the need to be back in my room in Riyadh, writing blogs and eating peach figs.

Life was simple during the summer, where I did not feel like I had much to do but wait and contemplate the coming years. I could sit and write, or think about what I would do once I sat down to write. I read so much, especially from other writers who were either from Saudi or who were living there. Even though my time was limited to some weeks, I felt every day that I had all the time in the world. There was no pressure or rush to do anything, and no real deadlines. It's nothing like now, where I am using iCal to its full potential. Every single day I have some sort of commitment, be it an academic meeting, a social event, or an errand. I am running on a schedule here. It is nothing like my life before, and I am growing resentful of it.

Today, the cold became so unbearable as I walked to the bus stop that I yearned for the hot, summer sun and sandstorms.

I heard it might snow tomorrow, and I have been panicking since. Is my coat warm enough? Do I have enough socks? What will I do in this horrible snow? I dislike the cold, being an island girl. However, I don't want the humidity and cockroaches of Mauritius right now, although it would be a nice alternative. For whatever reason, I want the dryness and blazing sun. I think at this time of year it would be different than the summer, and somewhat cooler in Riyadh. I do not know, because I haven't been to Saudi Arabia during this time of year for such a long time. I don't remember those years I spent as a child. What I do know, however, are the previous summers I spent and if I could have that now, I would be extremely happy.

Today, I found myself wishing, while smoking sheesha at my preferred lounge, that Mr. F could be there with me, sharing the sheesha and talking to me about his life.

My friends here are wonderful, but Mr. F always brought me down to Earth. He always had words of wisdom and warmth to give to me. If you want to know more about how I feel about him, you should probably read what I wrote previously, when I was still in Saudi. Rereading my own words made me feel very sad. Let me just say that until now, I have still never met a more selfless and endearing man. I am reminded of him all the time, especially when I encounter brownies (which is often) or sheesha (which is even more often).

Today, I thought about sitting in the villa's living room with my parents as each of us sat at our separate laptops and I couldn't imagine anything better.

Today, I wanted to buy a pair of shoes at Granada Mall because I know exactly where to look and I know they'd have something in my style.

Today, I saw a sushi place and remembered my Dad's ritual of buying a tray of sushi from Carrefour to eat while my Mom and I went shopping.

Today, I started to miss Saudi so much more than I have since I have gotten here.

The sandstorm still rages in my psyche. I'm never too far away from the desert.

Awake. Seek Truth. Stumble. Begin Again.

From "Buddha: A Story of Enlightenment"
http://www.comicbookresources.com/?page=preview&id=7133&disp=table

I love twitter. Because of twitter, I follow many random people I would have never thought of listening to otherwise, and I listen to what they have to say about 90% of the time. Also due to twitter, I have many links to click on so that I can procrastinate further on the many assignments and projects that are eating my life.

Today I clicked on a link that brought me to Deepak Chopra's Buddha. I looked at the gorgeous illustrations and was fascinated. There are comics about everything. And why not? I spent a whole thesis dedicated to why the sequential art genre is amazingly effective at displaying narrative. It is of absolutely no surprise to me that many books are being adapted into the graphic novel format. It is a completely different, yet valid way of portraying a story.

One person I follow on twitter, who is in fact one of my favourite people to follow, is Paulo Coelho, one of my most beloved authors. I found out through twitter that The Alchemist, a book I consider to be one of the best out there, is also out as a graphic novel. I'm ordering a copy as soon as I finish this post. When I heard of the news, I was so damn excited and thrilled that this existed. I cannot wait to see how this will work! Will I feel the magic I felt when I read the book? How will my gaze and the sequence of images change my emotional reaction to the events of the story? Will the still images and speech bubbles of the storyboard evoke the same questions and thoughts that the sentences did? 

http://www.marieclaire.com/cm/marieclaire/images/iJ/mcx-book-alchemist-graphic-novel-1110-mdn.jpg

I have to admit, like with any other person who is a fan of something that is very close to them, I am worried about beloved books translating to comics. It's like the book-to-movie transition - can it really work? What do they have to cut out? What will have to be added? How will the appearance of characters and settings match with my imagination?

However, I need to say that this isn't a book-to-movie transition at all. There are fundamental differences that make book-to-comics way more appealing to me than book-to-movie.

First of all, there is the lack of Hollywood. Oh my God, Hollywood! How you have destroyed many, many good narratives and characters! Look at that stupid Red Riding Hood movie that is coming out, for example. Pathetic. It is usually due to the Hollywoodisation of books that we are either bored to tears (those movies are usually better) or angry due to the complete distortion of canon (those movies are usually so much worse).

Sometimes, Hollywood can get it right. This is when the changes are subtle but necessary, the acting and screenwriting is superb, and most importantly, what I like to call the soul of the movie is unchanged. We are involved with the same characters we loved in text and the tone is perfect, matching that of the author and narrator. I like to think that The Color Purple and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest are good examples of this. However, most of the time these adaptations are just dreadful. Lots of money is spent on making a lot more money out of people like us.

Graphic novels, comics, whatever you want to call them do not have the pressure of Hollywood. From my own experience, they come in so many varieties that there is not need to glamourise the story at all. People who read comics tend to love books too, so while certain conventions do apply, the content of graphics do not need to differ greatly from that of a novel. Us book lovers are generally expecting the same things.

Obviously, the fact that there are images accompanying text (and some comics have no text at all) makes the type of narration dependent on different things. Therefore, the story will not be told the same way. This is a given. However, I feel that the medium can relate the story's "soul" more effectively because novels and comics are both forms of book arts. They involve the reader in a way that is similar to each other. Film and comics have something in common too, in terms of the movement of images - aren't strips reminiscent of film stills? I think so, at least. However, like with books, the reader controls the speed and movement of comics, whereas films are moved for you. It's a huge divergence.

Having said all of this, I need to note (so that I may remain honest with you all) that I view all three media with equal reverence. Actually, in order to be really honest, I need to use the word love. I love novels, comics, and film with all of my heart. There is something about narrative that means so much to me and all three of these art forms are effective in their own way. I like to view them as separate from one another and yet I cannot help but see them as extremely intertwined. Like life, it is complicated.

I wonder if I will be able to separate the novel from the graphic when I finally receive The Alchemist in the mail. Maybe the only way for me to enjoy the comic is to see it as its own thing, and let my eyes be led across the page. It is a narrative I know, but now it's time for me to see it differently.

At least the "different" way for me to re-experience The Alchemist isn't through some shitty Hollywood adaptation. Thank the LORD.

A Royal Devastation and a Case for Knowledge

I am writing this in response to a news item brought to my attention by a wonderful blog: Crossroads Arabia. It is one of the many ways the internet connects me to Saudi these days.

Also, please let it be known that I am really talking about a certain group of Muslims, not all of them, and certainly not all Saudi people. Every large area has many group, and within each group there is individuality and diversity. I am sure you know that already.

Recently, Arab News reported that archaeologists have found a Pharaonic inscription near Tayma.

What an amazing find! It is evidence of a trade route, of communication between peoples thousands of years ago. This route goes all the way to Jordan (according to the article). It's a fascinating discovery that gives Saudi history a different in its richness, a deserving complexity.

Crossroads Arabia makes a very good point though, and mentions a term: "The Age of Ignorance". This is a term that makes the human and the art historian in me shudder with rage.

When I was in Saudi, I let myself waste away (but then decided to write it off). I bathed in solitude, as many of you know. On the other hand, my sister took advantage of her time there to go and do much, much cooler things. This is for reasons of personality and opportunity, and I am very proud of her. One of the things she did was visit a museum in Riyadh, I don't remember which one, although I think it might have been the National Museum of Riyadh. She reported back to me about what she had seen, and one of the things she told me was that the museum had a certain...tone about pre-Islamic Arabia.

The very term "Age of Ignorance" is one I have heard many times in my life. People in my own family has used it, and many members of the Muslim community of different ages and walks of life talk about it casually in their discussions of religion. It marks an attitude that I could never wrap my head around, or even respect. This is because it is founded on the belief that before Islam, people were just...doing it all wrong. Nothing good could come from the "Age of Ignorance"! God brought to us the prophet Muhammad and he made us do it right, so all we need to know is that before Muhammad, people sucked. That's it.

As someone who has devoted years of her life to studying culture, the evolution of mankind, architecture, and many other things that involve the human race over the course of years upon years, I am insulted by this attitude. I cannot relate to it, and have therefore gained prejudices against people who show the merest sign of having it.

Islam is the religion of knowledge and I am proud of being brought up in a religious circle that preaches everything but blind faith. Since I was little, I was told several things that support the spiritual and mental benefit to gaining knowledge: read the Qur'an, become proficient in Arabic fuss'ha (or however you might want to spell it) so that you can understand it without a translation one day, read the parables/hadith of the Prophet and understand which ones are more reliable (if any of them are), have religious discourse, and take nothing at face value, for God has given you the capability to learn.

I feel like this "Age of Ignorance" attitude is contradictory to this wonderful, reasonable attitude that doesn't even need Islam at its core to appreciate. There are many things to study about all histories, including pre-Islamic history, and much that we can gain from remembrance and analysis. Many Muslims know that, and to them I am preaching to the (probably nasheed) choir, but others don't care about anything but their own little bubble.

This goes for just about anybody of any religious or non-religious upbringing. What kind of a life are you living if you do not appreciate the work of the men and women and others who came before you? What kind of justice are you committing to them, if any at all?

The reason art history was the major I chose in my undergraduate study is because I got to study history through the lens of expression and perception. I got to learn through the philosophies of those who came before me and those who are still working today. It would be a great shame if we ignored the ideas of others and pretended we are so much better than they are. I am proud of the discoveries of Muslim scholars, I am interested in the knowledge or wisdom that the Prophet might bring, and I am also equally interested in the Pharaohs that have made their mark on Arabia.

I have no right to make decisions for Saudi Arabia or for its people, but I have to admit and address the worry that I feel personally about a lack of interest or appreciation for a whole history. There is a block in my mind against Muslims, not just Saudis now (because my knowledge about the "Age of Ignorance" came from Mauritians and Americans) that is caused by my mind's confusion. Why would you not take pride in a rich past? Who would brush away the accomplishments of their ancestors? And why not try to learn from the ancestors of others who are not your own?

The people who would ignore the past are the ones belonging to Ignorance. The people of pre-Islam were, according to Islam, on the wrong path spiritually, but the mental capabilities were nothing to scoff at. There are non-Muslims who find no need to think about anything but their own present as well, and they are doing just as badly. Humanity has done great things, and horrible things, and we are the ones losing out if we become ignorant.

Write the Poem for Yourself, not Me

During my first year of undergraduate study in Upstate New York, I did an internship in between semesters at the Whitney Museum of American Art in New York City. It was there that I met and learned about Lawrence Weiner.


Just in case you didn't feel like sifting through the Wikipedia article, he has written the following important statements about his artworks:


1. The artist may construct the piece.
2. The piece may be fabricated.
3. The piece need not be built.

As you can probably see here, especially in the last statement, an artwork does not need to be made - it is, literally, the thought that counts. For those who are informed somewhat about art and art history, Weiner is basically stating the tenets of conceptual art. It is the art that is in the mind, it is the idea, not the physical representation.

One and Three Chairs, Joseph Kosuth (1965)
Image: http://www.moma.org/collection/browse_results.php?object_id=81435

Joseph Kosuth is one of the big examples, one of the guys you will always see in an art history textbook - and with good reason! He displays exactly what conceptual art is all about. Here, we have three ways of representing the same object - a chair. We have the chair itself, the photograph of the chair, and then the definition of the word "chair" right next to the both of them. What does it mean? Well, basing myself purely on what I learnt during my undergrad years, it basically means that all of these three things, these three "chairs" we see here are all just standing in for the idea behind what we see visually in front of us.

Although there are different ways of showing it, all three of these things are chairs. The shared meaning is what is the most important in conceptual art; that shared meaning becomes a raw one. The raw is what really counts.

Okay, everyone, it's time for me to finally explain why I am giving you an art history lesson here. Today, I wrote a poem. I used to love to write poetry as a kid, and even won a few little school prizes for what I wrote. This was way back when I was about 8 years old, by the way. When I hit my teen years, when I should have been writing poetry about my dark, depressing, emo life, I just...stopped. I didn't really want to write anymore.

Recently, I have been yearning to write in so many different ways besides my academic writing, so I decided to use a pencil and paper to write some poems. I wrote whatever came to mind. What became more interesting to me, however, was the feeling and meaning behind the poem. I remembered that back when I was studying English literature at school in Mauritius, I always wondered if the poets were looking down at all students, getting pissed off that we got the meaning of the poem all wrong. When I was more frustrated, I'd shake my metaphorical fist at Keating, Eliot, Lawrence, et al and say "Why didn't you also write an explanation for your poems? Isn't that the point anyway?!"

My teenage self is the person who missed the point, to a degree. Some people see the importance of the representation. Today, based on my little frustrated self and on my love and appreciation of conceptual art, I want to give to you...the meaning.

As I said earlier, I wrote a poem. I am going to give you the meaning. If you want, you can write the poem! What is more important is that everyone gets what the poem is about. 

The meaning is in the form of a list, but the poem is not

1. It mentions where I was born

2. It is about how far away I am from that place

3. It talks about a controlled life I do not wish to lead

4. It talks about "quiet desperation" - but not literally in those words

5. It talks about a desire to belong, even though the belonging comes at a price

6. The heavy price is that I can never be free to think my own thoughts ever again

And that, my friends, is all I am going to give you today.

Absence Makes the Keyboard Last Longer

Oh my, it has been a long, long while since I have opened blogspot and made it my slave.

Today I am going to write to you about writing. I think every person with a blog indulges in this, but each person has a unique reason for needing to write, or wanting to write if the need is not too great. Then again, I have always believed that needing and wanting are not so far apart. Blame my hedonistic attitude for that statement!

I used to write this blog to keep myself sane from the desert of my mind. It then became a reason for me to analyse and think about different aspects of my past and present life. It became a place to iron out some issues, discuss some thoughts, and open my own eyes despite the sandstorm.

Now, my life has been taken over by another kind of writing - the academic kind. Being a Master's student in a program about relations between people of different cultures...all I do is write! And the reason I am doing this reading and writing is to learn more about myself and how people interact. It is all fascinating. My ultimate goal, after this, is...guess what? To write more.


I do not use the pen and paper, I use the keyboard. I want to use my keyboard forever, use it up until it is so broken the keys don't even register anymore. After this laptop, I want to use another one. The keyboards will be used up like pens run out of ink. I have no paper, but that's just better for the environment.

I am writing in so many ways now, so many other ways that I have neglected to write in this blog, the blog that once kept me grounded. This is what is sad about my writing life. I need to put my life back into writing, and not just write for the sake of others in an academic setting. I cannot write only what others ask me to write, although I love the writing experience every time.

This blog is for letting you see me. I want you to see me and know me, even if you know very little about me. You will learn about me as you read, because the best way for me to open up to you is write. That's really why I write: because when I speak, or sing, I cannot express myself. My face hides too much, my body's movements are mostly calculated. When I write, the social situation is different. I can be myself. I can be anything I choose to show you, but I promise you that I want to show you everything. In due time, of course...

I am writing more specifically about writing today because I am taking part in NaNoWrimo - I am trying to branch out and write fiction. On my first day, I wrote ~2000 words. My story is about an afterlife where memories are stripped of the dead and they are stuck in a purgatory for a much higher purpose, one that will decide their ultimate fate. I don't wish to say too much just yet, mostly because I have not planned it closely and also because I have only written for one day.

Am I overdoing it with the writing thing? Am I writing too much, asking too much of myself? Let me just say that in my life, there is one certainty - okay, there are many certainties, but there is one major one that I feel very good about, although I know it is not possible. The certainty lies within a dream. A dream I know will never happen, a dream of a life that will never occur. The dream is this:

If I were to fill the rest of my life with eating, sheesha, and writing, that would be the best life.

His Dark Victory Over My Own

When I was 14 years old I was told by my school counsellor that I may be suffering from clinical depression.

After many ups and downs, I figured out over the years that I was not suffering from depression, but bipolar disorder. In terms of coping mechanisms and medication I must take that actually work and make me feel like a functioning human being, all of this makes sense. I have/had a psychiatrist back in Saudi (a strange, unlikeable fellow) but I have already talked about that in a previous, albeit messily written post.

Back at that awkward age, when I was told I had depression, I allowed myself to sink into that identity. I became the depressed girl who was on medication that didn't work. It became hard to deal with me. Everything I did wrong was because I was depressed and I let it become my reason for everything happening in my life. I kept it a "secret" but told some of my friends and let them know, so when I was in a particularly bad mood, they'd have my condition to blame. I'd have my condition to blame, rather.

How long could I have let that kind of attitude go on? Sadly, about 6 years. I went to undergrad with that mindset - that I was practically invincible because of depression, that it would be my excuse for all of my pitfalls. Even when the diagnosis was switched to bipolar, I let it drag me down. I honestly did not feel the need to fight against my condition. I became engulfed in helplessness. Because of my lack of desire to go against all odds, I went with, no, swam with the flow of depression's tide. It gave me bad grades, a terrible attendance record, and disappointment in me from people who thought I could do much better.

What a miserable, pathetic few years of my life. I still am bipolar, I still deal with the consequences, but I cannot let myself become the bitchy, angsty, immature brat I was before.

I was made to revisit my past and my previous diagnosis when I was face to face with a beloved family member who is currently dealing with depression. This man, once full of life, is now possessed by a failing memory and a hatred of his age. It hurts me so much to see him. However, I noticed that despite his feelings he still fulfills his duty as a grandfather, father, and husband without fail. He takes care of his wife and makes me believe all over again in everlasting, true love. He makes us laugh with his hilarious manipulation of our Mauritian Creole. He keeps us company with his stories of generations past. Although we are all concerned about his well-being, and it has brought many tears to my eyes to see the frustration on his face, he is doing all the fighting I couldn't be bothered to do; that I was too busy being self-pitying to do. While I lurked in the darkness of my room, he is struggling at completing his routines - routines he is still managing to keep even though it is becoming more and more difficult. He might have his moments, but he keeps moving on.

I am so proud of him. I have always looked up to him my whole life and admired the many amazing things that he has done throughout the years, whether on his own or with his wife, another wonderful person. He is doing what I was too scared to do back as a teenager. I became a victim by my own behaviour while he is not letting himself become too much of a victim. Though he is so obviously affected by the physical changes he is going through against his will, he is still alive while having some life taken from him. For 6 years, I was a zombie by choice.

Right now, all I have been thinking about is this wonderful man. He is as inspiring to me now as he always has been before. Mo Yab, personn pa kapav sanz twa. To bien tro fort. Extra pli fort ki mwa mem so mwa mo pli zenn. Vrai mem, to leker bien pli zenn ki mo leker.* I only dream I can be as good and as fort as you.





*My Yab, no one can change you. You are too strong. Much stronger than me even if I am younger than you. Really, your heart is much younger than mine.