Civil war in Lebanon has lasted for fifteen years and has claimed a huge number of victims between dead and wounded. War’s victims are not only individuals involved in the battlefield to fight for a cause they believe in, but also women who usually do not participate in face to face battles. In times of war, men who are not soldiers refrain from going out owing to the military situation outside. Home is thus transformed from a place where a woman can achieve partial freedom, to a space where she is monitored by the male gaze continuously. She thus becomes a double victim: victim of an outside patriarchal society which dictates rules of behavior she should abide by, and a victim of the power her husband, father and brother exert on her inside her home. According to Blunt and Rose, both professors of geography, space is “central both to masculinist power and to feminist resistance” (Blunt and Rose, 1) since men impose rules that women try to resist.

The two novels discussed in this paper are Binayat Mathilde and Tawahin Beirut. The main action in both takes place in Beirut. Both works describe the plight of the female from the perspective of different women: Katia, the two aunts, two women at the bakery, the narrator’s mother and Mathilde in Binayat Mathilde. In Tawahin Beirut, the women examined are: Mme Rose, Zannoub, Miss Marie and Tamima. Women in the two novels are portrayed as powerless even in their most powerful moments of decision making because the social structure works against them. The power relations between men and women almost always does justice to men and fails women. In this context, women are different from men socially, economically and sexually. But they are also different among one another because each one of them fights essentialism in her own way and from her own spot that doesn’t resemble any other spot. Thus the need for “plurilocality” or “the diverse spatialities of different women” as Rose calls it. This paper discusses the secondary characters’ conflict with space in general and then targets Mathilde and Tamima at a later stage as they are the protagonists of the two novels. It aims at showing how women who abide by society’s division of gendered space can survive on relatively good terms with this society. Those whose bodies diverge from the norm endure society’s marginalization and criticism.

If you always wanted to see age, loneliness, and illusion-making intersect in one narrative, then Catherine Mansfield has got the short story for you. Let’s go…

Synopsis (SPOILER WARNING)

An elderly English teacher named Miss Brill spends her Sunday afternoons at the Jardins Publiques (Public Gardens), observing everything she sees - the colour of the sky, the bandsmen, and the people sitting near her. Eagerly wearing her ermine toque fur, Miss Brill finds everything in the park so exciting that she thinks of herself as part of a play, turning up every Sunday for her ‘performance’. She anticipates that as the band plays an uplifting tune, all the ‘actors’ in the park will start singing - a thought that makes her cry. A young couple - the ‘hero’ and ‘heroine’ of the play - sit next to her, but a rude comment from the young boy shatters Miss Brill’s illusion. On Sundays she would normally stop by the bakery for a honey-cake slice, but this time she sits in her small dark room and puts the fur back in its box.

What is effective in the author’s telling?

Miss Brill’s detailed and idiosyncratic observations of the atmosphere and people at the park (“Wasn’t the conductor wearing a new coat, too? She was sure it was new”) serves to highlight her attentiveness in a place that she visits all too often. I also found effective the author’s use of third person narration, as I felt that this created a distance between Miss Brill and the reader - a potential metaphor for Miss Brill’s distance from reality.

Where did you need more from the author to be engaged?

I would have liked to have seen more of Miss Brill’s backstory in order to find out why she would be driven to her ‘play’ at the park every Sunday. As such, we’re not given much insight into the trigger that caused Miss Brill to inhabit an illusory world.

What did the piece make you consider in an associative manner?

I noticed parallels between the ermine toque and Miss Brill; the fur was bought when she was much younger, but over time they start to resemble each other (“now everything, her hair, her face, even her eyes, was the same colour as the shabby ermine, and her hand…was a tiny yellowish paw”). Both are also taken out of, and returned to, their respective ‘boxes’ - in Miss Brill’s case, her small room. The fur is a character of its own in Miss Brill’s world, described as being a “little rogue” with thoughts of its own (“‘What has been happening to me?’ said the sad little eyes”). Maybe wearing the fur is a way for Miss Brill to feel young again.

I also spotted a connection between Miss Brill’s inner state and the park band (“But even the band seemed to know what she was feeling and played more softly, played tenderly”). This reflects the centrality of the band in lifting the mood of the park environment and encouraging all the ‘actors’ to sing.

What were your overall thoughts?

A melancholic piece that blends themes of age and isolation, it took me a second reading before I fully understood the themes and connections in Miss Brill’s story. The blending of illusion and reality did catch me off-balance, and the overly descriptive tone (“...the blue sky powdered with gold and great spots of light like white wine splashed over the Jardins Publiques”) was a little tough to get through. But Miss Brill’s observant attention to detail and excitement at seeing the ‘play’ serves to highlight her self-involved isolation, projecting an illusory image of the outside world that makes her feel as though she belongs (“No doubt somebody would have noticed if she hadn’t been there; she was part of the performance after all”). The young boy’s comment (“‘Why doesn’t she keep her silly old mug at home?’”) brings an abrupt end to the park fantasy. This leads to her passing by the bakery and parting ways with her fur - and perhaps, a part of herself (“when she put the lid on she thought she heard something crying”). This emotional core is what kept me interested, and curious as to how she ended up the way she is.

Overall rating: 4 out of 7 Sahabs

To read about the Sahab 7even rating system, please visit this post.

I see your blossoming strength but
show me the part of you that
has been tainted by time
bruised like the clouds before
a storm begging to
be appreciated

Bring me to the fenced corner of
your eyes where your
darkest desires and needs lie
in wait in the peripheral world
for the right time to drop
the handkerchief

Lead me to the most painful part of
your desert where the lonely cracks
and untamed shrubs are isolated by
distance and engineered choices

I see your coveted smile but
show me that part of you which is
as ungraspable like the slivers of
sunlight penetrating the curtains
staining the crumpled sheets
as incomprehensible as your
silence that rattles in a room

Bring me to the wintry corner where
you fold your dreams neatly
organizing them from blue to
the bluest of blue

Lead me to the edge of your
mountain where you threw
your million innocent pieces
while the rest of you followed
a memory down a train station

I see your beautiful mind but
show me the cluster of hesitations
patterned at the back of
your stubborn will

Or 

Lay with me here now
on my humble ground
where we can fearlessly watch your
thoughts ascend towards the midnight
blue without a guarantee that they
will look back and smile proudly at us

And

Then you will turn to me and
I will thank you for the small part
you have unreservedly shared
because after all
you are a magnificent wave
bound to disappear into the sea

The following is a poem written be Nadia El Hajji, a member of the Sahab Collective writing community. She presents a poem attentive to rhythm, memory, and the way grief settles into the body and the city alike.

Louis Garratt

My heart synchronised to the vibration of the warm asphalt
The rhythm penetrated my rib cage and colonised my stomach
My skin pulsating like an anthill
And my throat tightening around the sound 
The staccato of the horn, snapping like overstretched wires

The ground remembered the way you walked towards me
Deira street recognised your smell
And as the sunset drew your shadow across Al Thani tower
Ahmad already prepared your favourite karak chai

Something in my body missed a beat it couldn’t recover

My heartbeat slows to a hush
The rhythm fades from my ribcage
A breathless void in my stomach 
The anthill stilled
The horns have fallen silent leaving a leaden hollow

The ground almost forgot your walk towards me
Deira street could not recognise your smell
Al Thani tower, waiting shadowless 
Your karak at Ahmad's remaining cold

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I thought about leaving, but my glass wasn’t empty.

Someone called for a mojito, and I imagined Seamus sighing. But he wouldn’t, would Seamus. He’s a good barkeep. Might even be laughing at their jokes, raising a quizzical brow at a sultry joke egged on by office booze. I wanted to turn, catch his eye, but then Janine might have seen me and made her way over.

The couple under the tele wore crepe crowns, green and red. Were holding hands. Him, wet ale the colour of Henry, the golden retriever who induced me to value the treasure of long walks. Her, tomato juice. Celery phallic in its reach above the brim

If she came over, Janine, I had planned to tell her I was waiting for friends. I imagined she would take a seat. Possibly the one nearest me.

Dismissed escape to the bathroom out of hand. They’d see me as I stood. Might bump into me. The ritual left-step, right-step, when two people access a toilet-door corridor from opposite ends. The safest best was sitting still. Bent knees and lowered head. Finish my beer.

Looked over my shoulder. The bar was collage, but no pink. No coat collar that’s soft to the touch. A damn to dry.

My beer was cool. I brushed at the beads collecting on the glass, wiped my fingers dry on the pine table. The couple under the tele shared a kiss. I drank deeply. Winced. Fizz stung my throat.

‘Easy there, big fella. You’ll be wanting another?’ Seamus clapped my shoulder, but I didn’t turn.

Said, ‘No. No I don’t think so. I’ve gotta get going.’

‘Oh aye, ya sure about that?’

I swallowed more beer. The woman with the tomato juice wrapped purple-stained lips about the top of the celery and crunched. The heel of a purple stiletto was against the man’s calf.

‘I’ll be going,’ I said, and drained my glass and made to stand. Seamus started to collect glasses from other tables. I shrugged on my coat, face still towards the couple, towards the tele.

That’s when I saw the pink again. Beyond the frosted glass of the pub. Moving away. From pub door to car park. Janine was leaving.

I turned, eyes raked the people propped up against the bar, those sat at the saloon tables. Heavy ankles stepped in time beneath a disco ball. Janine’s ankles were not there.

‘Seamus, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll take another beer.’

He nodded. Empty glasses clinked as he rounded the bar, and I sat again. Spread my legs. Angled the wooden table, so I could see the bar and the tele, too. She’d gone.

Checked my phone, no message.

She hadn’t seen me. Or, she had. And then, she had left.

‘I’ve stuck it on your tab.’

‘Thanks Seamus. You’re a pal.’

Glass shattered somewhere. A cheer went up. I raised my glass to it along with some others. Didn’t smile though. Checked my phone again and drew my legs back into myself.

A group was shooting back shots of tequila. They grimaced, their faces pulled tight. Tighter than their jeans. They ordered another round, leaned against one another.

I looked at the couple under the tele, sipped my beer. Sipped some more.

‘Robin?’

Janine had matched the colour of her shoes to her coat. I could see that then. Pink slip ons, bright against a carpet that worked for a living.

I looked up. Back to the tele. Back to Janine.

‘Waiting for friends,’ I said, waving at the empty stools. ‘Do you wanna go toilet?’

‘What? Are you alright?’

‘Fine. Why you here?’

‘Christmas drinks… How are you?’

‘Saw you leave. The pub, I mean.’

‘Yeh. I’d forgotten my wallet. You saw me then, knew I was here?’

‘Saw you leave, so. Didn’t need to say nothing. Just drinking up and going.’

She leaned in then. She kissed me on my forehead. The collar of her jacket was soft against my cheek and I could smell the perfume bottle that sits on the second shelf of the bathroom cabinet.

‘Take care, Robin.’

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Mamma told me not to say that. To say can’t. Cannae. Will not, cannot. She would grab my wrist and twist, so that the skin turned red beneath her hands, and flick her tongue like a snake as she repeated, ‘No such thing as can’t’, as I would scramble and try to wrench my arm free, but she was stronger than me, then.

She’s sixty now. Few days ago, in fact. According to her, she hobbles. I can picture her slab-worn dc Martens, the one’s bought on discount, hanging above the oversized pebbles she decorated the back yard with, looking for a safe space to plant her Nazi-beating sole. Soul?

Seoul looks like a lovely place to go. It’s far from here. Does Anime come from Seoul? Dunno, but suicide does. Only Greenland has more. K-Pop, too.

Another slice of white drifts into the waste paper basket. Different to the others. That one is carrying a maroon stain.

My Grandfather once called my mother a stain. The table had been laden with crackers, onion gravy, horseradish in a china boat, our brews half meshed by primary colour crepe. She’d made a cock joke. Rather, she’d lain down a challenge, for the men to whip ‘em out and dash ‘em on the table top.

Grandpapa had pushed himself up said what he said and then he was gone and Mums stood there hyperventilating and telling old Rose that she had to leave cos she couldn’t stay and no one grabbed her wrist and yanked her skin.

Daddy did nothing. I can still picture him forking another flap of beef into his mouth, can still see the furl of the brown as it pushed against his lips and the gravy dripped in dollops to his plate.

I’ve decided to write around the red. Like, paper is born white, all innocent and pure, so it’s best to muck it up. Make it my own. Tell my own story.

Mum tells stories with exaggerated pauses. Whether that’s for performance, or due to slower processing, I ain’t too sure. She will start, ‘And you’ll never guess what Sue did yesterday…. You know Sue, you do, you do! Well… I talk about her all the time… Remember I told you about her the other week… About her husband catching chlamydia in Thailand…. And… Well if you won’t even look at me as I talk to you then I can’t continue.’

The blood’s pouring pretty swift now, and the nib of the fountain pen is fucked. Girlfriend bought me a Montblanc, but there’s a little bit of skin caught between the bits at the end, so whenever I try to drag it ‘cross the paper it stutters.

I used to sound like a baby’s machine gun, peppering p’s all over the place. That was my stutter. Was told to face fears at the school nativity. I got Joseph, a playground crush on Mary, and a pale blue tea towel round my head. I was scared, obviously. Told her that I couldn’t do it and oof there it was. A choreographed bash, twist, and dash. Wrist skin stretched and nose to the boards of the assembly hall. White lies made Mum’s curls bounce. As she told Miss Pebbody I had tipped, she looked like a biblical bush in a sandstorm.

I’m not so agitated anymore. That’s one good thing. The paper is cool to my cheek and, honestly, I can’t remember what had got me so worked up. Just wish it wasn’t so sticky. Can’t keep my eyes open, so I’ll close them for a bit. Rest a little. Can’t work when tired. Later, I’ll write this letter to Mum.

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Synopsis (SPOILER WARNING)

Lonely ninth-grader Theodara (‘Theo’) sits under an awning at her house, reading a book and taking shelter from the summer heat. There she watches Shirlee - a mysterious ninth grader who is supposed to be in the eleventh grade - walking around. The two start to bond over the book, just as Theodara overcomes her fear of reading out loud. Both start to visit each other more often, taking care to avoid Theodara’s overbearing mother Jane and her new husband Roger. Theodara is enticed by Shirlee, but becomes increasingly uncertain about her friend and her free-wheeling lifestyle. Eventually, Jane catches her daughter and has her bedroom door removed. Exposed and with no way out, Theodara is enrolled in a new, Jane-approved summer schedule. After some much-needed contemplation, Theodara finds her voice and must make it clear to Shirlee: they can no longer hang out.

What is effective in the author’s telling?

The conveying of Theodara’s vulnerability is simple but effective in setting up her motivations and her state of mind (“Theo was tired of being friendless and lonely, of having no one who could understand her”). The transformative impact of Shirlee’s presence is made clear from their very first encounter, e.g. Theodara becomes more confident reading to Shirlee out loud than in school. This sets in motion a series of encounters and spontaneous intimacy. Shirlee’s confession of a harassment incident and her disbelief (“Sometimes I think I made it up ‘cause it happened so quick”) serves to gain Theodara’s trust as well as the reader’s. It also serves as a potential cause for Shirlee’s implicit and explicit sexual behaviour.

Where did you need more from the author to be engaged?

The absence of Shirlee as an equal main character made this feel like Theodara’s story more than anything else. I would have liked to have seen more perspective on how Shirlee came to be the way she is; much of her upbringing and behaviour is implied (“...somewhere in that house, bear boy was showing Shirlee’s young body no slack”). A more explicit focus on Shirlee would have given us more of a well-rounded perspective on Theodara and Shirlee’s relationship and whether it was right for it to end the way it did.

What did the piece make you consider in an associative manner?

The piece made me consider Theodara’s growing confidence over time as she starts to push back against Shirlee’s behaviour (“Theo was relieved to walk home alone; sometimes Shirlee was just too much”) and against her mother (“Other people’s friends spent the night at their houses. Jane was too unreasonable”). I also spotted a religious connection towards the end of the story, as Jane enrolls her daughter in Bible class and warns about Shirlee “bringing Satan all up in my home” - a reference to Shirlee’s permissive lifestyle. I also spotted a connection between Theodara contemplating whether she was “going to roast like a weenie in the hottest fire of hell” and the overall setting of a summer so hot that our main character struggles to walk to her house (“The heat was suffocating…Each step seemed like her last”).

What were your overall thoughts?

This was a brisk, no-nonsense piece that kept me engaged with its themes of friendship, desire and discovering newfound confidence. Theodara experiences growth from start to finish, emerging as a more assertive teenager who knows when to draw the line and make her own conclusions (“That magic, Theo knew, was gone”). The sensual descriptions (“Once Shirlee was in the bedroom, every stitch of her clothing would come off as if by magic”) might be in bad taste for some readers, but can serve to highlight the fleeting nature of the relationship between Theodara and Shirlee.

Overall rating: 4 out of 7 Sahabs

To read about the Sahab 7even rating system, please visit this post.

What follows is an excerpt, Chapter 1, from the first draft of a book I wrote six years ago. I will be sharing it with writers during the first seminar of the Summer Programme, which kicks off in two days time. I am sharing it with the intention of providing writers an opportunity to workshop, to model the sharing of pages (a vulnerable act), and evidence - though I wish it weren’t so - what I now regard to be naive writing.

When writing Gods In My Pocket (GIMP), I never shared it with anyone, and was irresistibly charmed by own efforts. I was too involved, lacked perspective, and never sought the opinion of others. I lacked community, or - as they are called by the publishing industry - Beta Readers.

Part I

Is it neurotic, to worry ‘bout memory and how we place in it?

There are arguments plenty to point to conclusion that life has scant meaning, but most resist Logik. And rather than yielding to pointless existence, we strive and we try.

Rationality skirted.

And praps that temptation is nurtured and fed if one’s not so enamoured by life after death;

Atheistic beliefs;

Life’s sinful palate.

Completion of time stopping heartbeats and breaths and line in the sand so what we got is just this.

And this is what we use.

Use for impressions,

a life for the memory so what we will do is eternal not lost.

So thoughts and hopes, cultivating remembrance or leaving ‘a’ something, a book like this or a treasure whatnot,

a legacy through the family or a house with good stones or witty lines that thrum chests.

Records in a sports team or a wall hung Foto, or at least a bit of granite with fancy letters that spell a life lived at the top of a box buried six foot beneath.

A few of course don’t, and resist the rule.

Or claim to don’t.

Would prefer life alone with no impressions kept, to leave no imprint on a world that will turn, with indifference move on.

But I don’t believe them.

To leave no impression is to live quite alone.

To become praps hermitified, deleted- history censored- belonging not sought.

And reasons are given by those that step back. There are claims of spinsterism and objecting to company, an asocial character that loathes idle chatter, futility of existence and blablabla…

I think it more likely this stance is for comfort.

A resignation to lonely cos then there’s no trying. Indeed, why suffer pain and awful anxiety for a post-dead outcome of gold immortality?

It all boils down to the question of why,

but pragmatic outlooks and wilful blindness shy most eyes from looking that far.

But for those that do – those that peek at time stretching and skies black wide – a look descends and it’s one that blots dreams so future’s obscured and efforts lose feet.

And though it happens all over- to people in country or village green lanes – on per capita basis it is nowhere so prevalent as in city spaces.

Cities are undiscerning. Cities crush street spaces, smash people together so solitude treasured, and social crowds flux and ape the loner that stands in the corner.

And cities change.

They change for the natives of Soho on London streets or a child in the Bronx. For old feet tripping in Istanbul, Parisian arrondissement or South ‘Murican states invaded by Mex. Tourists flecking beaches in Barca and Holland coffee shops blasted by stag lads and right twats.

A familiarity with streets and door names lost, the tongues spoken widen and vernacular alters, cultures adapt with cuisine and faith flavours mixed and stirred, Musik bop beats banging tunes new and Kunst in art spaces hanging at jaunts.

It’s hard to keep up, and if one does not then the neighbour with sugar and milk in jugs to lend in tight spots, becomes confronting and scary.

But belonging can be found. Memory created. Resignation unlearnt.

And now that I’m Split – gone from that life – I find myself wondering how they’re telling my story.

What shit bits and fuck twits are spreading untruths and making bold failures I dint have a hand in.

Emphasising the murder, terrorism and such and getting the sack, illegal love and fired by Suits so me a working bar hand but that misses the point.

Those bits might be there,

but my story retold aint a story of that, not what it’s about.

It’s a story of joy.

The joie de vivre and cobbling smokes, Bier glasses raised high and finding the love and a palace for home. My three best friends gangling with scarves that are stolen and eyes flashing blue.

But for giggle and fun, you gotta belong.

Have a niche that’s yours and not bob through with rigmarole daily and love without bong.

So sure, there’s death in my story. Terrorist cracks and bombs exploding. Things bad done that I shouldn’t be proud of.

But at least I found it.

The teams of Us and gods given conviction ‘spite the Brexit and Fuxits and right racist pricks.

The belonging will bong with Love, Work and Altstadt.

Then Bier, Brot und Fleisch – that quintessential Düsseldorf life.

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What is effective in the author’s telling?

The multiple examples of the colour blue were effective in distinguishing the horizon as hosting “a deeper, dreamier, melancholy blue…the blue of distance”. Solnit uses this to gesture to themes around desire and distance. Her personal examples, e.g. seeing her old turquoise dress, grounded the essay in the author’s memory and her relatable goal of making sense of the past. The historical examples, e.g. 15th century paintings, strongly implies that “the blue of distance” is a primordial concept that has been explored by people in the past as well as in the present.

Where did you need more from the author to be engaged?

The author puts much emphasis on describing things such as “small sprays of brown oak leaves” and “pale brown roses”, but it’s not clear how this relates to the other ‘threads’ in the essay. Similarly, the author doesn’t make it clear how the ‘colour of distance’ is related to emotional states like solitude and desire. I needed more clear direction from the author throughout the essay; at times, the lengthy description of places such as Antelope Island felt needlessly dense and long, straying away from a focus on blue as the colour of distance in favour of more abstract manifestations of memory and intangibility.

What did the piece make you consider in an associative manner?

The piece made me consider how the blue of distance inevitably manifests itself in different forms throughout our lives (“The blue of distance comes with time, with the discovery of melancholy, of loss, the texture of longing, of the complexity of the terrain we traverse, and with the years of travel”). It also made me consider maturity as a way to make sense of the losses of time and appreciate distance.

What were your overall thoughts?

I liked segments of the essay, but found much of it to be very digressive from the centrality of blue as the colour of distance. The author’s fascination with blue is established early on, but at times felt tangentially related to the other ‘threads’, which were centred on more abstract concepts such as desire and longing. Unlike ‘The Empathy Exams’ by Leslie Jamison, I felt that this essay lacked the same personable tone to keep me engaged throughout.

Overall rating: 3 out of 7 Sahabs

To read about the Sahab 7even rating system, please visit this post.

-- Louis Garratt

“I am late, I am late,” I was screaming in my head; I just could not find my car keys! I needed to be out fifteen minutes ago to make it to work in Jebel Ali Free Zone, at the OTHER end of Dubai. How could I still not manage my time at the ripe old age of 40? Get a grip on yourself, Yasiii!!

Once I realized there was no way I was going to reach work on time, I decided to stop by my usual Keralite-owned cafeteria for some emotional support juice: Karak Chai. I needed it. It was Monday morning, the traffic would be brutal, and I was already o to a wonky start. I drove up to the cafeteria and gave a tiny honk to catch the waiters’ attention. I looked up at the foggy sky; winter had finally arrived in Dubai.

I ordered my usual: “Ek keemah paratha and ek karak chai,” and immediately started salivating at the thought of taking a huge bite and having that warm, oily kheema juice flood my mouth and sometimes dripping down my chin when I am not careful.

Looking out the driver’s window, I couldn’t see the tip of Burj Khalifa through the thick fog. As I looked around, a Tesla pulled into the cafeteria, an Emirati man behind the wheel. He gave the same order but with an Arabic touch: “Wahed keema, wahed karak.” The Keralite waiter nodded from side to side, signalling his understanding. On the other end, a young British fellow, probably just done with his morning jog, pointing animatedly at the menu: “One egg sandwich.” Again, the Keralite waiter nodded vigorously.

This is my Dubai… or rather, this is my UAE. It has its language, its own rhythm, uniquely its own. And it cannot make sense to a person unless they have lived it.

I may not be Emirati, but I have been here for more than thirty years. There is no other place I can possibly call home. In fact, I feel downright homesick in other countries where the population feels more uniform. It makes sense—people belong in their own nations—but I need to see abayas, smell bakhoor in government o ices, watch Indian dresses, blonde hair, African voices, and tiny Filipinos heading to work in the morning. Dubai is basically a mini-Earth compressed into one city.

We even speak modified versions of English and/or Arabic so we are understood better. Anyone who has lived in the UAE for a while will have picked up some Emirati slang, some Indian song lyrics, some Tagalog words, plus whatever their friend circle speaks. I can easily flirt in Tagalog, but I still don’t know how to say “left” or “right” in this language. And thanks to my Iranian friends, I know some choice Farsi insults: “Khak tu surat” is one of my favourites, and I’ll keep it PG so this gets published!

The waiter delivered my karak and paratha. I unwrapped its foil wrapping, stuck into my mouth, and then proceeded to use both hands to reverse the car out of the parking lot.My morning drive from Jumeirah Village Circle to Jebel Ali usually takes thirty minutes, but with the fog and my tardiness, Wave showed a fifty-five-minute travel time. Was I screwed? Yep! It was an incredible start to the work week.

As I bit into my paratha, memories of my life in Dubai flooded me along with spicy warmth of kheema. We came to the UAE in 1988, living in Deira near the Chamber of Commerce in a shared apartment with another family—much to my mother’s dismay. She didn’t like sharing a kitchen with another woman, but my dad was adamant; it was a good way to save money. I was two years old, fresh from Yemen, and the desert filled me with such wonder and an incredible feeling of freedom. I was in the sand constantly.

I remember these details so vividly because I still do them to this day. The first thing I do when I go camping in the desert is take o my shoes and bury my feet deep in the sand, wiggling my toes. That, to me, is what home feels like.

Desert sand is different. It holds you, molds itself around you, gives way—but never fully gives in. Like Dubai, this sand has an attitude.

I remember a school safari trip, the full moon bathing a nearby dune in silver light. It was so bright I could see every line in the sand, like henna etched into the dune itself. It called to me, and I obeyed—climbing to the top, leaving behind the noise of excited classmates.

I stood there breathing it in. So, this is what this land smells like, I thought. Dry. Cold. A hint of smoke and fire.

Then something slithered.

I scrambled down the dune, which is harder than it sounds. You don’t really run on soft sand—you ski. Not ideal when you think there’s a snake behind you. You want to bolt, but one wrong move and you’ll tumble down with sand landing in unspeakable places.

I told you—this sand has an attitude.

Grinning at the silliness of my school kid self, I took my exit with focus. Missing an exit in Dubai is reincarnation—one wrong turn and you’re on a side quest. Not today, exit demon. I was already late.

As I merged back onto the road, the foggy, dewy streets and familiar tra ic signs nudged me with memories of Dubai in the late 80s and early 90s. My brother was born in 1990 at Al Wasl Hospital (now Latifa Hospital) and I recently notarized his birth certificate. The original was marked with a simple signature; today it’s a hologram sticker. Dubai has come a long way in just over five decades, racing toward an increasingly digital future. I sometimes wonder where that original signatory is now, in this AI-driven city where even robots point the way forward.

Back then, Dubai still had 80s décor, earthy autumn tones lingering from the 70s. I remember it most vividly at the first Hyatt Regency near Deira Creek. Dad was a chef (still is), either working or interviewing there, I can’t quite recall, but I was fascinated by the Dawar restaurant. When the lift doors opened, a chef uncle—everyone was an uncle to me—spotted me and flashed a huge, warm smile. I felt both protected and welcomed. I would leap across the circular space, mesmerized by its curvature: no matter where I stood, I could see everything. Compared to Sana’a, Yemen, Dubai felt like a sci-fi movie.

I know it sounds unreal that I remember so much, but I have a knack—almost an eidetic memory—for moments charged with feeling. It’s a double-edged sword. Sometimes it serves me well; sometimes not so much. My Emirati ex-husband, for one, never quite appreciated that particular skill.

Driving along, it struck me that the UAE had always felt like home. I was born in Yemen, and our traditions overlapped: the white cotton floor cushions and mattress covers trimmed with colourful piping were in our living room long before I ever saw them displayed at the Shindagha Museum.

We use the same golden metal kettle through generations. We fill it with aromatic tea, an insane amount of sugar, and spices, and boil it over coal, even though we have a gas stove. Somehow, it just doesn’t taste the same any other way. This kettle travels with us when we go camping, carrying tradition and flavour wherever it goes, a bridge between our Yemeni roots and life in the UAE.

Going to the desert almost always means a glass of tea or a small white china cup of traditional Arabic coffee. Even if you don’t make it on the spot, you will stop at a cafeteria for a to -go cup of Karak Chai, emotional support juice through and through.

There are traditions and rituals written on paper, but the deeper ones live in your soul. It’s a connection between you, the desert, and the sky, unbreakable, and unforgettable. I saw this firsthand in Bonn, Germany, when my ex-husband was sent there for orthopedic care.

My ex had several broken bones from the waist down, and since the Germans are famous for orthopaedic care, Dubai sent him there to see if a full recovery was possible. Many Emiratis stay long-term because the treatment takes ages. So how do they bring a piece of home with them? You guessed it—they bring the golden metal kettle, among other things. They built a mini community, families visiting for dinner, men meeting over shisha and backgammon. I once beat the crap out of my ex at backgammon. My mom had warned me, “Never defeat your husband in anything; it’s bad for his ego.” Maybe that’s why the marriage went south so fast. I didn’t keep track of what was “bad” for his ego.

Better slow down… speed limit is 80 km/h on Hessa Street; I keep forgetting. Don’t want another fine from Dubai Police. For someone who’s lived here forever, I STILL get fined. You’d think I’d be used to it by now! Dubai police are actually fun; they joke with you, discuss why you shouldn’t be fined, and even share chocolates.

I’ve had plenty of run-ins (not proud of this). Once, behind Al Mulla Plaza (when it was open), I went to check out Al Ahli horse riding club. Took a wrong U-turn, meant for oncoming traffic. Something felt off, but I blamed my driving skills. An older policeman stopped me: “Did you NOT see ME? I was fining other cars right in front of you!” I laughed and said, “I assumed it was for other reasons! So, I kept driving.” We were both laughing outright now; with a wide grin, he handed me an AED 400 fine and sent me on my merry way.

Then there was the policeman directing tra ic near Deira Clock Tower every morning. Ya Allah, what a smile! I saw him every day on my commute to Warba Centre. His grin was enormous, like a sunflower leading the way, spreading warmth to everyone in morning chaos. It was as if sunshine itself had taken human form just to make people feel good before they started their day.

Another time, my mom was heading to Al Maktoum Airport, leaving without checking fuel, mobile credit, or network. She called me mid-journey: out of fuel, in the middle of nowhere. Luckily, a dawriya was on its rounds. The policeman filled her tank, refused money. My mom gives me heart attacks like this all the time. My ex-husband thought it was adorable, always teasing, “Khalti kakuta—Aunty is cute!” I’d fire back, “Katkuta fieinak – cute my foot!”

It was perhaps that sense of fragility that made leaving the UAE in 1991 so surreal and returning in 1994 during the civil war in Yemen. That was a very frightening experience: the sound of bombs and rifles at night, water shortages, adults speaking in hushed voices, and faking smiles that twitched at the corners.

My mother, my personal hero, handled two small children all by herself in the middle of a war. I was seven, my brother four. I can only imagine how paralyzing it must have been—one child in each hand, the world o -kilter. She decided to escape Yemen as war refugees, leaving her homeland behind. From Aden port to Djibouti, then Ethiopia, finally Muscat, Oman, where my dad had settled as a chef in a big hotel chain. I didn’t realize how psychologically violent it was until much later. Trauma buries itself in your subconscious, waiting to surface in monstrous, unpredictable ways. Like a hydra made of nightmares, it multiplies when provoked.

Of course, this is from a child’s lens. The details are patchy, built more from the fear on my mother’s face than from facts. My memory was good back then, but I still felt safe, not yet on high alert. That came later. After the war, trauma sharpened it. My brain started hoarding details, trying to predict danger before it could find me.

We stayed at a refugee camp in Djibouti, a French military base. The food was on another level, served by rugged, fit, uniformed French men. I had octopus for the first time—didn’t like the chewiness then, still don’t. But it showed me how ugly human nature can be at its core.

Maybe that’s why I have a thing for men in uniform. Even my ex was a customs officer at Dubai Airport. I first saw him “undercover,” which was hilarious—he was the most un-undercover Emirati ever. Might as well have had “EMIRATI” flashing on his forehead. That was the very first red flag I ignored in this relationship.

I gripped the steering wheel tight; I don’t like this part of my life. It’s heavy, murky, and slightly suffocating. I can joke about it and write about it, but I am not totally okay with it. We stayed in Oman for less than a year, then came back to the UAE, this time to Sharjah. Oman had never felt safe for me; we were mostly housed in a resort, within staff accommodation for the hotel itself. Although luxurious, it was not a good place for children. Expat parents are often too busy and too tired to keep watch over their children; it’s a bad formula any way you look at it.

I remember the car ride from Dubai Airport to our apartment in Sharjah in 1994. There were only two buildings sitting in the middle of the desert, sand everywhere, and one single road cutting through it. Everything else was just paths carved out by cars coming and going. It felt wide open, but this time it didn’t feel safe or like home. It felt dry, hot, and unforgiving. That’s what fear does, it colors your view. The first time I came to the UAE, the desert felt freeing and expansive. After a war, your brain starts scanning for shelter. In a desert, you don’t see much of that. The desert didn’t change. I did.

Our neighbors were an Emirati family, the Al Zarounis. They owned the building, and as the only Arab families there, it made sense that we gravitated toward each other. My brother and their son disappeared into video games and endless snacks. Whenever my brother went missing, I was sent upstairs to retrieve him. Once those games started, the world stopped existing.

Ah, UAE snacks. That’s a whole story on its own. I’ve bonded with many a UAE kid over them. First, the legendary Oman chips. No idea who makes them, but thank you for not messing with perfection. No wild flavors, no rebranding, just chips. The classic move was samoon bread, Red Cow triangle cheese, crushed Oman chips, and a dash of Eagle Tabasco. Absolute heaven. They’re everywhere now, even coating shrimp tempura in fancy restaurants. Thinking about them makes me consider stopping at a petrol station. No, no. No time. No space for the calories. Oh wait, a truck just passed by loaded with palm trees wrapped in burlap. Very Dubai.

There’s something about childhood snacks. They’re time machines. The smell, the taste, the effort it took to buy them with pocket money. Thinking about them sent me straight into the chaos of Haq al Leila giveaways at work.

I was lucky to land a job in a prestigious family-owned company in Dubai in 2012. The company was founded in 1935 after a British trading ship needed hands to o load its cargo. An accident turned opportunity. That’s how Dulsco was born. Working there made me feel even more embedded in the story of Dubai and the UAE. It carried that unmistakable “I can” attitude of Dubai, expanding into new areas and creating something out of nothing. It was a solid learning ground.

The chairman then was Mr. Abdul Aziz, may he rest in peace. We adored him. We called him the Emirati Santa Claus, jolly, generous, and always up for young-employee shenanigans. His granddaughter Hind worked in IT, and we clicked instantly, like long-lost sisters. Around that time, Emiratization was gaining momentum, a national effort to bring more Emiratis into the workforce, and from it came the Haq al Leila initiative, led by Hind. Naturally, I joined her as the marketing attaché within the company.

The idea was simple: traditional giveaways on each employees desk, along with a small pamphlet explaining Haq Al Laila. Celebrated on the fifteenth night of Sha’ban, just before Ramadan, it’s a night where children dress up, go door to door singing “Atoona Haq el Laila,” and collect sweets and nuts in decorated bags. It’s one of those traditions built on generosity, community, and togetherness across the Gulf.

Picture this: two young women in abayas, surrounded by mounds of sweets and snacks for 300 employees, plus some Filipino helpers, creating a mini assembly line like Ford’s factory. Mini chocolates, sugared almonds in baby pink and blue, small burlap bags for the traditional look, “eyeglass candy” shaped like an English 8, tiny cups of jello, Kopiko—my one and only co ee to ee—Abu Walad cream biscuits, and chocolates disguised as golden coins. We passed each bag down the line, assembled sets, and finally tied on the explainer tag as the finishing touch.

It was chaos, fun, and a little bit of mayhem. I so wish I had my youth back, I wouldappreciate it even more the second time around, it was that nonsensical.

I had many adventures with Hanoodi; one of my absolute favorites was her black Mercedes G-Wagon. In Dubai, your car isn’t just a car—it’s your personality, your status, your public identity. So when H.H. Sheikh Mohammed Al Maktoum was spotted in a G-Wagon with the number “1” plate, Dubai basically lost its collective mind.

Hanoodi pooled all her mental, emotional, and financial resources to snag a pre-owned black G-Wagon. We lost it the day she got it to work, jumping and squealing around the car at 8 a.m. in the company parking lot. I hope no one saw us. Of course, a Dubai car isn’t complete without a “special” plate. Dubai plates were too pricey, so Hanoodi scored one from Ajman. I don’t remember the exact number, but it was colourful and popped like crazy against the sleek black G-wagon.

One male Emirati co-worker walked by, squinted, and said, “Shnu haz, arqam Space Toon?- What is this, Space Toon numbers?” I nearly died laughing. He was right. Before satellite TV, we all grew up on analog channels. Space Toon was the Arabic kids’ channel, channel 33 the English one. That plate? A deep UAE-kid reference. If you didn’t grow up here, you would never get it.

Television was a fundamental part of my childhood. It was how you got to know the news and what is trending. Entire eras of my life are stored in TV memories.

Some of my earliest memories are of children’s programs: Captain Majed, Tamtoom, Al-Ragheef Al Ajeeb, and Dragon Ball. I absolutely hated Yaseen in Captain Majed; he annoyed me so much, while Omar was pure comic relief. Everyone had opinions. Everyone had favorites.

Then there were the dramas and variety shows. Back then, Kuwait was leading the Gulf in television, cinema, and radio. Now Dubai has caught up and in many ways surpassed it, especially with short films and animations like Freej and Shaabiat Al Cartoon.

Ramadan and Eid revolved around the television. Ramadan meant Tash Ma Tash in our household—a Saudi series that ran for 19 seasons. I think it started in 1993; I was nine and my brother was four. We’d gather around the TV after iftar to watch it. The concept was so simple, but it was based in real life, so it really resonated.

Eid meant masrahiyat, theatre productions like Bye Bye London and Bisat Al Faqeer. Anything with Abdul Hussain Abdulredha and Souad Abdullah was guaranteed gold. One of my absolute favourite clips is the song sequence in Bisat Al Faqeer where they fly to India on a magic carpet. I was on the floor laughing because I understood both Arabic and Hindi; the jokes hit twice.

One of the most OG channels back then was Ajman TV. It had this Sudanese host, Tajtooj (may he rest in peace). He let every single caller win—which somehow made it even more fun to watch.

As a family, we even remember the exact day H.H. Sheikh Zayed passed away (may he rest in peace). The anchor was crying as he announced it on air. I got goosebumps just writing that sentence. For us kids in the UAE, he was Baba Zayed, from Eid Al Etihad songs to school assembly speeches. He was deeply loved, and his loss was genuinely felt. I didn’t get the privilege to meet him but had the good fortune to meet H.H. Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum while organizing an event at the World Trade Centre. That’s such a Dubai thing. You can randomly run into the rulers of the land. There are guards, of course, but it’s not extreme. No scary weapons. No heavy uniforms.You can ask for a photo. They wave back when you see them driving past on Jumierah Road or near Zabeel Palace. Our very own Dubai celebrities. It’s all very chill.

I love nothing more than driving in the winter, with the AC o and the window rolled all the way down, the air crisp and cool. It fills me with excitement for all Dubai winter activities. One of them is Global Village. I am not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed that I have been in the UAE longer than the 30-year jubilee Global Village is celebrating this year.

I remember bits and pieces of the very first Global Village in 1996-97; it was in a parking lot-type area near Dubai Creek. Dry, dusty, arid. It is a feeling for me, not a memory. And now this feeling of a dry cold, yet dusty & arid, is my definition of fun. That is what gets switched on when the first winter winds start blowing toward the end of October. The first Global Village was like a fancy carnival. I mostly remember the games. Simple ones. Throw a ring over a bottle, shoot a target, and win a stuffed toy. I wanted this massive stuffed banana; it was human, or rather, it was a kid-sized stuffed toy. I tried so hard to win it and failed. I am still sore about it, thirty years later! I want to win it, not buy it—it doesn’t mean the same to my inner child if I just hand in a credit card to get that stuffed banana.

The rides were quite basic compared to now. A merry-go-round with badly painted horses—I am telling you, one of those horses was schizophrenic—the eyes were all over the place! The rides included little bumper cars, a house of mirrors. The things that really stuck with me were the little stalls. Coloured sand art in bottles. Names written on grains of rice. And of course, luqaimat. Back then, it was usually one hajiya wearing a burqa, a nice mukhawara with a Thobe Al Thor over it (Emarati traditional wear), making them in a perpetual bad mood. Now it’s 5 or more women making the luqaimat… also in a perpetual bad mood, but with better organization, a card machine, and more topping options like Dibs and honey.

It is our family tradition: first get a plate of luqaimat, THEN start roaming around the village. We go every year. My mother spent a total of AED 500 on that 1st Global Village trip; my brother and I felt like royalty! We left the village when it closed, around midnight, and the city was already in bed. We had to walk on the main road for a while till we could find a cab. We were tired, sticky, dusty, and oh so very happy!

And of course, winter in Dubai is wedding season! One of my favourite pastimes is attending Emirati weddings. We lose our minds. I don’t know what the men do on their side, but the women literally come out of a fashion magazine. Traditionally, women celebrate in their ballroom and men in theirs until the groom comes to take his bride home. But before that, it’s party time. Back in the day, live bands would perform behind a curtain; now it’s more chic to have a stylish female DJ rock the night.One thing never changes: songs from the Kuwaiti band Miami, all the rage in the ’90s. No matter the age group or economic standing of the guests, one or two Miami songs will be played. The DJ goes, “Fikoum tarab?, - Do you feel the music? ” and we answer, “Away- Yes” Then she says, “Fikoum wanasa? , - Are you ready?” and we scream, “Aywa.” And then she lets the music loose. You know it’s a good party when the women leave looking dishevelled, heels abandoned under tables, and branded purses forgotten, just having a blast on the dance floor.

Then the groom’s entrance is announced, and we magically transform from hooligans into the epitome of feminine elegance, demurely seated around tables in sparkly abayas and scarfs perfectly in place. If only they knew… two minutes ago, Shaima was putting Shakira to shame on the dance floor!

Dang it! There is just so much traffic! Why did I decide to spend those extra 15 minutes trying to balance my left eyeliner with my right? Dubai traffic is like baking a macaron—timing is everything. Just a few minutes late, and you are stuck in a bottleneck with everyone leaving for work at the same time. A few minutes too early, you end up twiddling your thumbs at the o ice waiting for the rest of the team to arrive. I took my mobile phone o its car holder, looked left, and looked right, watching for Dubai police—no more fines! There were no discounts this year on traffic fines! Sometimes Dubai offers discounts on National Day, but not this year.

Furtively, I started googling when Ramadan is in 2026. February! Yes—a winter Ramadan. Ramadan in Dubai is another special experience. The roads glitter with lights and decorations, and the city has put a modern twist on it in recent years. Many tents now offer Iftar and Suhoor packages with live music. My ex-husband and I covered many of these when the trend started. My favorite is at the Anise restaurant at the InterContinental Dubai Festival City. It isn’t the fanciest, but it is very well done.

Back in the ’90s, it wasn’t so grand. No extravagant decorations, no live music, no dressing up for Suhoor. It was more of a family and neighbours a air. We made large amounts of food and sent it to our neighbours before Iftar; it didn’t matter if they were fasting or not. Our table was always overflowing with dishes from all over the world, thanks to our neighbors. You visited family for Iftar, and Suhoor was really just about drinking 1.5 liters of water before Fajr—the hunger was fine; it was the thirst that got you. Small cafeterias would sell fried snacks like samosas and pakoras in the streets, a setup exclusive to Ramadan. This still happens in inner areas like Karama or International City, not so much in modern Dubai.

The Ramadan tents then were different. They had long rows where people breaking their fast were served dates, water, and haleem—a slow-cooked, spiced porridge made of wheat, lentils, and meat—among other things. Mom used to send my brother to get haleem from these tents; it was such a treat! These tents still exist but are few and far between. Now there’s the Ramadan Aman initiative, where volunteers hand out Iftar meal packages to people driving during Maghrib. I miss the tents; the sense of community was tangible. Non-Arab Muslims would wear their little white caps to signify it was Ramadan. The rules were stricter: food outlets had to cover windows during the day, eating in public was frowned upon, and there was less music on the roads.

Still, many of us keep an entire Ramadan wardrobe. Our outfits more modest, flowy, and austere. After all, it is the holy month of Ramadan.

At last, the o ice loomed ahead. Memories of desserts, parathas, and Ramadan tents were dusted o by the tire of my car, but the present pulled me forward. I have to admit I had lived such a rich life in Dubai, in the UAE. I parked my car and walked the few steps into the office lobby.

Amabel was at the reception, bright-eyed as ever.

“Good morning, Amabel,” I said, grinning. “You look very Maganda this morning.”

She grinned back and waved me off.

See? I told you; I can flirt very well in Tagalog.

What is effective in the author’s telling?

I found Jamison’s personable writing style effective as she admits to vulnerabilities and makes us feel like we are in her position (“...in truth I don’t know much about the person I’m supposed to be or the place I’m supposed to be from”). I also found her attention to detail effective as she describes her role down to her physical appearance and tone. The inclusion of seemingly minor details on the people around her, e.g. how ‘Blackout Buddy’ gets prepared for his role, made Jamison’s experience feel more immersive; instead of it simply being ‘her’ story, the inclusion of other actors and medical students allowed it to become ‘our’ story.

Where did you need more from the author to be engaged?

I would have liked to have seen more perspective from the other actors and medical students, instead of just hearing Jamison recall their behaviour after-the-fact. This would have allowed us to gain a wider perspective on the world of medical acting, given that the relationship between Standardised Patient and medical student is mutual (“We each understand the other is inventing this small talk, and we agree to respond to each other’s inventions as genuine exposures of personality”).

What did the piece make you consider in an associative manner?

The piece made me consider empathy as a form of travel/penetration into someone else’s pain, while connecting this with Jamison’s exploration of her character and the lessons she learns (“Empathy isn’t just listening, it’s asking the questions whose answers need to be listened to. Empathy requires inquiry as much as imagination”)

What were your overall thoughts?

I found this an engaging piece overall. Jamison establishes her experience as a medical actor early on, which provides coherence to the other ‘threads’ in the essay, e.g. her personal life, her understanding of empathy. The ‘threads’ were relatively easy to pinpoint and follow as the essay went on. However, the neat divide between her Standardised Patient training materials and Stephanie Phillips’s training materials felt contrived and abrupt, breaking the flow of her writing.

Overall Rating: 4 out of 7 Sahabs

To read about the Sahab 7even rating system, please visit this post.

My name is Ibrahim, a Sahab Collective intern.

Louis, the Director and Programme Leader, has given me a series of questions for me to answer for each piece I read. To help assess the quality of each piece, I have come up with my own rating system of ‘Sahabs’ (Arabic for clouds) in place of stars. Here’s what each one means:

1 Sahab: Hateful - I would actively tell people to avoid this piece
2 Sahabs: Forgettable - others might like it more than me
3 Sahabs: Decent - I won’t get that time back, but I don’t regret it
4 Sahabs: Good - I could see myself going over this again someday
5 Sahabs: Very readable - I would actively tell people to look into this!
6 Sahabs: Excellent - I will gift this again and again
7 Sahabs: Masterpiece - I will give the author/creators my kidney

The views expressed here are my own and may not please everyone. If you have any further thoughts or suggestions, please feel free to share.

Look out for what’s to come!

Ibrahim Zamir
Research Fellow

Gran had just had the carpets washed, so when the second plane hit I was removing my shoes. Still slick with the sweat of a September’s walk through the village and up the hill, view of the tele half-blocked by a blonde settee. That’s what I remember. But I’ve since gone and checked and it’s all a cute fiction. The second plane hit at 09:03 EST. I would have still been in school.

Wrapping paper littered the floor of my grandparent’s front room when Indonesian and Sri Lankan beaches flooded their screen. I stood, pocket full of chocolate coins, and watched grainy footage of swells and objects, stuff, caught on the toothpaste white froth. But then I was called to the table and we poured brown gravy over slices of beef.

The dancer, the singer, the King of Pop. He died whilst I was nursing an inexpensive yet toxically induced hangover. I was lying in an unfamiliar bed in Köln and morning light was drilling a hole from my forehead to my spine. We were a month out from the start of his world tour. A friend had texted to ask if I thought he would be liable for a refund.

On the basement floor of Durham’s library I watched a Japanese girl move her hands from her cheeks, to her keyboard, then back to her cheeks. She was in the carrell next to mine. The girl placed a call and spoke quickly, was asked to leave the library by a brunette with glasses and a red, cable knit sweater. The Japanese ran off without her laptop. Fukushima on her screen. Vehicles and radioactive waves. The keyboard was dotted with puddles of wet.

Even as the armies were moved along the nations’ borders, I told my Politics students that nobody wanted a war. Then it happened. We spent a lesson watching foreign news channels in my classroom, a cutout of Margret Thatcher pinned to the wall. Coal-black stickers where the eyes should have been. The next day we heard the story of the woman who told the Russian soldiers to put sunflower seeds in their pockets, so that when they died on her land, flowers would grow.

This time, I was leading a seminar on Culture in Al Mankhool, a Dubai Public Library. The seminar ended and I waited for the second cohort to arrive. By that point, news was starting to trickle in. Some of my writers chose not to attend. Others tried, but their GPS had been scrambled and they were stranded on the side of the road. For those that came, we got deep into a discussion of Maggie Nelson’s Bluets as a barrage of drones and missiles intensified. But for several blissful hours we were beautiful pigs snuffling through pages another had laboured. Our innocence was not threatened.

Later that evening my girlfriend taught me the word labeed. It is a Lebanese word, the sound of impact. A thwumping. Labeed is the sound of a missile, of interceptors. She taught my ears to feel the labeed, to feel the sound of an air filled with violence.

What do you do with an air full of thwump?

I am no longer a child. Cannot eat roast beef and watch Cow and Chicken and ignore the world. Or, perhaps, I could ignore the world, but death has informed my acknowledgement of mortality and, once acknowledged, occasions such as these will pinch at the priorities that underscore a life. I found it difficult to focus on the mundane in the wake of it.

Perhaps that is why admin tasks have stacked as little bullets in my planner. Emails from semi-important people were marked unread. The cabbage and sticks of celery I bought to meal prep in the call of health are still, a little rudely, at the bottom of my fridge. Cans of Carlsberg and non-brand vodka with slimline tonic have left an aspirational box of green tea untouched.

But if one can find Flow. That abstract, ethereal space that is difficult to describe but wonderful to feel. I find it when sweating, working out, pounding a bag and dodging old men in tank tops whilst lapping Barsha Pond.

I also find it when writing. For me, writing is a state of deep concentration in which my mind gets a tickle. My words. Words of others. The mental gymnastics of finding a phrase or image just right. It is a space in which to think beyond the half-articulated ideas that get spouted in voice. This blessed document provides the time to consider. As writers, we can make the Tetris blocks of life, if for only a brief moment, fall as we wish.

Variously attributed, and invariably right, is the maxim To Write Well, Is To Think Well. And in this world of thwumping, labeed, rotting celery and twenty-four-seven coverage of a war that’s overhead, To Think Well is clarity; in application, and by internal condition; clarity both in and of thought.

What a wonderful reason to choose today to write again.

Follow Liji on Substack!

Perhaps it was well that ammachi forgot this phase of her life. She had not wanted to move. In earlier days, when we were children, she used to narrate stories of her childhood: how her father used to buy her necklaces and new frocks from the shops, how she was the most beautiful and the best dressed child in her community. She was certainly the most beautiful and the best dressed ammachi we had ever seen. “Oh, Ammachi oru parishkaari allaayirunno?” (Oh, you were a fashionista?) we would taunt her. “Athedi Aayirunnu” ( yes, I was), she would respond with her toothless grin. Perhaps it was well that ammachi could only think of happy times in her last days.

She left us without any warning. She had been steady for a while and we had stopped fearing that we would lose her soon. “Perfect timing”, I thought to myself. And, “perfect timing”, in my mind, had always been an attribute of God. Like that one passenger who gets saved from the airplane crash because she was 5 minutes late. Or, like Mini chechi’s achen. Achen had a chronic heart problem since he was young. At first, doctors thought he wouldn’t survive long. Then they said “maximum 35 years”, he won’t live beyond that. But he lived till 53. The medical science thought him a miracle. After both his children graduated and his elder son finished his Medical degree and got job as a doctor in a nearby hospital, a week after that, achen passed away. Mini chechi didn’t have a job. How would she have raised a family without achen’s salary? They say God doesn’t make mistakes. So I thought God was talking to me. I had been planning to meet Joe on Monday. I was to leave for Hyderabad on Saturday, but this news hit me in the morning. Perhaps it was a sign from God that I should listen to my parents and get married in the traditional way rather than fight to have it my way.

“She was a woman of great virtue and grace. After appachen (grandfather) passed away, she held her family together with her sensitive and pious habits”. That was Rev. Varghese Mathew, my father, ammachi’s only son in law eulogizing her at the funeral. He was the undisputed spokesperson for the family in every formal occasion. They took to each other. The family saw a respected man of good behaviour and gentlemanly characteristics. The son in law saw a respected family with good connections. Together, they held the family’s name, honour and dignity in place. Except for the daughter / the wife, my mother. Mom came from a landed, well educated family. On the other hand, Papa was the only educated member of his family and they didn’t own any land. Mom saw a huge difference between the two families – their culture, their expectations of her, the freedom she was allowed. She didn’t gel as well into her married family as papa fit into his.

“Amma was a happy and contented soul”, the eulogy was going on. I wanted to raise my hands and ask a few questions. “Does lack of choice constitute a moral decision?” What does it mean to say ‘Free Will’ is the cornerstone of the Bible? Did ammachi miss making love? Forget that. What about having a conversation with a partner? Did anyone ever care about these?

Ammachi became a widow at a very young age. She was barely 40 when appachan (grandpa) passed away. Before that, for two years, appachan was bedridden after a stroke. Ammachi looked after him diligently. The reward for that diligence was a life of loneliness and quiet – surrounded by children and grandchildren and loud noise. I asked my mom if nobody ever asked ammachi about getting married again. She laughed. “Who was to marry her off? Who would have married her?” mom asked. The problem about arranged marriages is that it works like a market. The younger, the more beautiful, the wealthier, the more innocent you are, the easier it is to find a companion. Parents marry their children off. What about parents who are widowed with adult children? Who will marry them off?

After the funeral, we stayed back the night - to grieve and remember. All of us were there – all the children and the grandchildren– except my brother. He couldn’t manage leave on such short notice. We got together in ammachi’s room in the night and shared our favourite memories of her. I couldn’t reconcile with the fact that she is gone. Her room stood there – her drawer, jewelry box, bed – all intact, except for that fragile body at the window looking through as if waiting for someone to come through. Staring into the distance longingly.

Ammachi got married at 17. She had 5 grown up children by the time appachan died. Looking from the outside, ammachi had nothing to complain about. Her children were well settled and her daughters in law looked after her well. But I can’t erase the image of her standing at the window. That’s how she spent most of her time. Ammini ammachi’s (our neighbour) house is on that side of the window. Ammachi can see and hear through her window what is happening there. Sometimes she would pick up news about that household from her window. We would make fun of her ‘detective’ work. Sometimes she would go and sit in the sit out clad in her spotless, pristine white dress – looking the embodiment of grace that she was.

“She understood the value of education”, Valiya (big) Uncle, her eldest son said. When appachan passed away, only Valiya uncle had finished college and was able to work. My mom is the second. She was in college and the younger 3 uncles had not finished school. They shifted to a rented house in the nearest town so that they could attend schools and colleges without difficulty. Ammachi took the initiative for all this and made sure that her family followed suit without difficulty. She made sure that all her children had a College degree and completed their education.

“She had an easy life, she didn’t have to work hard”, said Thampy uncle, the youngest. Apparently, ammachi had two servants while they were growing up. One looked after the household work and the other, outside work. She was looked after well by appachan. Ammachi would still wake up dreaming of appachen. She would tell us all about it in the morning. Maybe they are together now – again, after so many years.

There was a black Bible on Ammachi’s bed, next to her pillow. There was a white envelope in it. Inside the envelope, we found 3 photographs of ammachi. All of them were taken when ammachi went to visit Thampi Uncle in his official residence in Delhi. She was not wearing her customary white mundu and chatta. Thampi Uncle’s wife had got her dressed in colourful churidhars and had her hair cropped. She did indeed look like a fashionista.

Next day morning, as we were leaving, my mind was full of Joe. What will I tell him? It seems evident to me now that our union wouldn’t last long. We were from different religions and caste. “Love” might see us come together. But God forbid, if something goes wrong, a serious disease, or death happens, will our love be enough then? Is our love as strong?

I have been to the depths of the ocean. I have counted the mosses and all their colors. There were days when my grief was a wave, swallowing the shore and everyone in it.

Today I am a leaf, I go where the wind blows.

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I want to be loved by beautiful people. Be in beautiful places. Laugh at beautiful jokes. And in 2018 I was stood in one of Berkley Square’s side streets. Sexy Fish around the corner. Beneath the glow of Sprüth Magers, some blue-chip gallery where my girlfriend of the time was interning. Outside in the chill, I was lining the length of a Rizla with rolling tobacco, filter already between my lips, when a tall man with a razor cut skull asked me for a light.

His name was Daniel Spivakov. Ukrainian artist. At the time of writing, his German wife is a gallerist in Berlin, and together they are making the waves.

I warmed to him. Wanted him to warm to me. His wife was smoking hot, and I didn’t yet know they were married. My girlfriend not forgotten, I wanted to be loved by both of them, and for a short time I would be. An invite to the French House. Meet ups in Soho and China Street would follow. But that night he asked me a question.

“What do you look for in art?”

And fuck me he hadn’t said it offhand. This was a line he was used to spilling. Waving long fingers and glancing to the side as he said it.

I can’t remember how I responded. Most likely something about feelings or emotion. I was still to pen my manifesto, to state clear my aims and intentions as a writer. The granular building blocks of a philosophy I would cling to at times of need were only then forming. But whatever I had said he had nodded vigorously.

“I look for the light,” he returned.

The fucking light?

All this grand posturing for a line that could be dropped by a shepherd on crutches making sure of a flock’s welfare. The. Fucking. Light?

So I pushed him, though not too hard. I wanted him to love me. But I asked him what he meant, assuming that this kid who was studying at Central Saint Martins would be used to explaining his stance. But he couldn’t. He waved his hand a little more, spoke more of light, about the point at which a canvas is struck and how his eye might be drawn along certain strokes, across colours, down shadows.

Was it the chatter of a bloke with high ambitions? Absolutely. Reflecting now, many years later, do I think he was wrong? No. Wrong perhaps to bring it up with a guy on a come down and a pining for a pint. But I do not think he was wrong in what he said.

“The light.”

I am closer to that now. It is light that appeals to me, too. His inarticulation of what light consists of was a product of the inadequacy of language to express what we feel in our bones. You tell both your mother and your lover that you love them, vary it slightly with a well-placed ‘so much’ to emphasise this feeling, but the expression comes no way close to capturing the throbbing of hearts and desires and appreciation you have.

And love is a trite example. But it applies elsewhere, too. How do we capture the exquisite pleasure of a post-long haul flight cigarette in the cold gusts of Heathrow’s pedestrian concourse? Or the blissful moment of waking, bone-weary, but refreshed, the morning after a punishing long run around the lakes of Milton Keynes?

I watched a YouTube video recently in which Robert Macfarlane was being interviewed by David Perell, and he, a celebrated writer and wordsmith, spoke of the impossibility of precisely capturing and conveying the beauty of nature in words. It cannot be done. That sun setting beyond the Agadir bay with its hues of orange and red splashing rough in the glass veined blue of the salted caramel sea will never be described to the point where you will see what I saw. So, what do we do?

Macfarlane suggests that we coax the mind of our audience to imagine it for themselves. But how to do that? There is a piece in Ted Hughes’ book Poetry in the Making where he speaks on this:

The art of choosing details… is not an easy one… you do not make things any better when you try to fit the picture grain by grain into the reader’s imagination… (but) a comparison is like a little puzzle. When I say “His hair was like a rough coconut’s” – you say to yourself, “How can it be? And this rouses your imagination.

Ocean Vuong teaches something similar to his students at NYU. He explains that mimicry does not capture the reader’s attention. He provides the line ‘A red evening sunset along the hills’ as a useful descriptor. But the line that appears in Isaac Babel’s Red Cavalry is ‘An orange sun rolls across the sky like a severed head’.

This phrase is new. What does that sun look like? We do not, as readers, have a reference point. We must imagine. Good Lord, we must work!

Is the coaxing of imagination, to create the visual of a sunset, a form of Spivakov’s light?

Increasingly, I think that it is. It is a light in the telling, yet any bookworm can tell you that beautiful language and metaphor is not enough to have them whispering in the witching hour, Just one more chapter.

And because I find the terms a bit dull and restrictive I want to shelve any references to plot, story, and character-driven narrative – for now. Plentiful craft books and chapters exist that will pace you through the differences, step-by-step, typically with Western canonical examples or pieces of literature seemingly selected to highlight how well read the author is. And they undoubtedly are, but it can be fucking tiresome.

Instead, I will use a phrase that on first hearing is a little bit wanky, just like Daniel and his reference to light. That phrase, is engagement.

How do we engage a reader?

How do we prevent a reader from disengaging?

And of the two, perhaps that second question is most important. I want to be loved, but more than that, I do not want to be hated, or to feel inadequate. I want readers like moths, or some lost soul in a Swiss mountain tunnel, to be drawn to the end of my story. To burn the candle to its nub. If someone were to disengage… they’ll never see it.

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