The Moving Frontlines I

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Not a care in the world, beside the ordinary, transgresses my thoughts as I drive down a quiet country road in the heart of the American Midwest. I look up and in my rear view mirror I catch a glimpse of a recent past green with grass, undulating hills, serpentine river,  and a sun set worthy of only the American Heartland; heavens on Earth. Yes, heaven indeed; we are placated by two great oceans on either side, a sister country to the north, and a southern step-sister whose slippers we confiscated. Peace abounds but for the occasional Michael Brown; a trivial matter blown out of proportions.

I say ‘trivial’ not in the slightest way as I ache for those currently left behind or standing beside their loved ones in a Ferguson, Missouri, ripped apart by a stirring dormant beast of race. The word ‘trivial’ is, however, fitting, in comparison to the hell that’s befallen the human race outside our boundaries; the apocalyptic wave that seems to engulf the rest of the world.

As I look to my immediate future and the next intersection I have to cross, I wonder about our safety and if we are, indeed, far removed from the lurking danger. The Oceans have served us well in the past in keeping the enemy at bay; Pearl Harbor and September 11 being the notable exceptions. Will the wide expanse of water keep us out of harm’s way? Will they sweep away the home grown extremists to whom we afforded safe-haven but from whom we garner no sympathy?

The answer to both questions is a blatant no! But please, do not point finger at anyone because collectively we have welcomed their presence while marginalizing them, and most importantly, radicalizing their US born children and pushing the latter in search of martyrdom! Will we be able to detect from among our own those battle hardened jihadists and brain washed youth coming back home with physical and mental training in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria? Some are already back; their ideologies, foreign to America and the Muslim majority are spreading, like cancer, among the disillusioned.

I know; I am one of them but I am among the forgotten Muslims that do not count but are constantly warding off the stares, the ‘where from’ questions, and the sly comments we and our children are bombarded with. I will never forget the tearful question of my teen daughter when the Boston Marathon ‘earthquake’ hit her school; “why do they hate us so much?” was her question. I had no easy answer to the evil act of the home grown ‘brothers’ nor to the grief of the school community drowning my daughter in her own shared grief.  

What are we to do? Panicking, rebelling indiscriminately, or even internment camps are not the answer but neither is the ‘laissez faire’ of the moment. Our President, for whom I casted my vote, is a lame duck but so are the giants of the Republican party as their elephants bicker amongst each other. Our human rights advocates and those opposed to the NSA wiretapping are not helping either as their whining will only protect those that have something to hide and not the innocent who might end up paying the ultimate price.

We need to balance the equation but err on the safer side. We need not ask “what our country is doing for us”, but rather how are we to sustain our heaven of green pastures and peace of mind?

The next time I find myself in line at a public event, I will hug my children a bit tighter, I will be tolerant but watchful, and I will remember to vote for those candidates who love America for they “breathe in liberty but exhale long term patriotism!”

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This is a piece I wrote for the "Springfield NewsLeader" Sunday August 30th, 2014, issue (http://www.news-leader.com/story/opinion/contributors/2014/08/31/despite-troubles-us-remains-haven/14847487/).

A discussion ensued online with one of the top commentators, Laura; interesting read. Although I appreciated her comments, I was frustrated by her narrow sightedness, a phenomenon common among Americans. I wonder if my piece would have been taken in the same breath in other countries?

For your convenience, I have copied and pasted the aforementioned discussions.

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  Laura Tennison · Top Commenter · Springfield, Missouri
  

  “Peace abounds but for the occasional Michael Brown; a trivial matter blown out of proportions”. At least four unarmed black men have been killed under disputed circumstances by police just in the past month. We should be outraged. You don’t see the connection that goes all the way back to Amadu Diallo?
  
  Our country is imploding with “home-grown extremists”, and the horror is that they don’t look like Arabs. Where do you think the “radicalizing” of Muslim children begins? Gaza, US drone killing of innocents, US torture war crimes
  
  The 9/11 bombers who still lurk at your “intersections” were radicalized by US support of client Israel’s horrific treatment of Palestinians, the several hundred thousand Iraqi children who died after the Persian Gulf War as a result of US sanctions, and the US military presence in Saudi Arabia holy land (Bush ultimately removed the bases but Obama brought them back).
  
  And we should not suffer fools gladly who refer to those who oppose the NSA spying as “whiners”…”laissez faire of the moment”? Who else do you want the US to bomb? What other legitimate foreign elected leader do you want the US to oust? What other group of jihadists do you want the US to arm? Is that “exuding patriotism”?

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  · 3 · August 31 at 8:40am

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    Hala Gheriani · Works at Federal Reserve Bank
    

    Laura,
    My piece is not dismissing the injustices in this country nor is it supporting the US government's subsidies of corrupt foreign leaders.. I know better. Michael Brown's triviality is ONLY in comparison to the carnage happening overseas and I make that clear in my text.
    It is a piece reflecting on my personal experiences and how we can protect it by being proactive and voting for those who plan for the long run instead of the next election. It is a piece calling for inclusion and accountability. It is a piece dealing with a specific growing threat, among many others. The beheading of Mr. Foley, a US citizen, by a "homegrown" UK citizen should have rang the bells for you. I believe that once the US is done bombing the existence out of terror overseas (not to mention the collateral damage), the defeated but not vanquished U...S terrorists will come back home and they will not be idle collecting disability.
    I believe in our justice system albeit not the executors and we must raise our voices or it is only going to get worst.
    As for the spying business and in the face of what is coming our way, often because of our own doing, I am not opposed to it with the current oversight and rules of conduct. The Germans are probably, right now, spying on Obama although they did ride the wave of discontent.
    The rules of engagement is changing and we better spend our billions right here at home on education, health care, social services, and if we feel generous, we could spend our money in factories overseas to give those youth hope for a better future rather than keep on feeding their despot and their Washington DC lobbyists.
    I may not have answered all your questions but I certainly tried to answer my conscience in light of what you have brought up.
    Thank you.
    Hala Gheriani
    
    P.S: The 1 sentence summary the NewsLeader inserted at the beginning of my piece is misleading and was upsetting to me because it set the readers on the wrong tracks but what is done is done and there are greater fights out there. My title was "The Moving Front Lines" and that may have gotten your good graces...at least initially :) See More

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    · September 1 at 2:40pm
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    Laura Tennison · Top Commenter · Springfield, Missouri
    

    “Peace abounds but for the occasional Michael Brown; a trivial matter blown out of proportions”.
    
    You set the tone right there for the local audience—your neighbors and mine who like nothing better than marginalizing the plight of black people. You could have made your point without carelessly invoking, and thereby exploiting “Michael Brown”.
    
    “Will we be able to detect, from among our own, those battle-hardened soldiers and youths coming back home indoctrinated in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria? Some are already here, seeped in foreign ideologies to America and its Muslims. They are recruiting among the disillusioned and, like a cancer, they are infecting the vulnerable while fooling their neighbors and even loved ones”.
    
    Please defend your statement, and your implication, with several reliable sources.
    
    “As for the spying business and in the face of what is coming our way, often because of our own doing, I am not opposed to it with the current oversight and rules of conduct”.
    
    Who in the world has convinced you to feel secure in the “current oversight”? On the one hand, you're overly fearful about American soldiers becoming jihadists, but you blow off the highly toxic US spying? Again, what are your sources?

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    · September 1 at 4:54pm
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    Hala Gheriani · Works at Federal Reserve Bank
    

    Laura,
    You are reading my script out of context and your repeated isolation of my 15 words out of 500 do not summarize my piece.
    Let me remind you, once more, that right after the aforementioned 15 words, my transcript reads: "I write "trivial," but not in the slightest way, as I ache for those left behind [Michael's family] or standing beside their loved ones [the officer's family]. The word "trivial" is fitting, however, in comparison to the hell that's befallen the human race outside our borders."
    
    I do not "carelessly" use my words and it is the looters whom "exploited" Michael Brown and defied his family's wishes. I am thus "setting the tone" only if you chose to comprehend my transcript one line at a time with complete disregard to the body and the global reality's far reaches right here at home.
    
    You are not giving our ..."local audience" enough credit and I actually sense a bit of haughtiness (forgive me if I have erred) but if my piece got "your neighbors and mine who like nothing better than marginalizing the plight of black people" to thinking about Blacks even though my piece was not about Blacks, then I consider it a blessing in disguise because you only can change people by engaging them. You are not going to change my neighbors and yours if you keep the lid on because their kids are infecting yours and marginalizing mine at school and on the play grounds! I am speaking from personal experience.
    
    You then pluck a paragraph comfortably nestled, yet again, between its arteries, and you ask me to defend it and my implications with "several reliable sources" and you are confused with my acceptance of the "highly toxic US spying" while being "overly fearful about American soldiers becoming jihadists"…Madam, I think we operate on different plateaus and it is either my amateur writing or your myopic views of this article that are at fault. The referenced "battle-hardened soldiers and youths coming back home" I point out in my article are "the home-grown extremists" and the radicalized children pushed "in search of martyrdom" that I had mentioned in previous paragraphs and not our uniformed men and women. The latter are already coming home hostages of their Post- Traumatic Stress Disorder and an under-funded Veterans' health system; they do not need to be further saddled with suspicion for their altruistic 'servitude'.
    Reliable sources are aplenty and not a day passes by without a reputable news organization reporting on my statements and their implications but none as fresh as this morning's NPR Morning Edition program titled "Jihadi Recruiters Taylor Their Message to Online Trends" (http://www.npr.org/2014/09/02/345158363/jihadi-recruiters-taylor-their-message-to-what-s-trending-online). This is my message, in a nutshell, eloquently put and aired by NPR.
    I would also like to bring to your attention another troubling phenomenon, in line with what I wrote, in the following article, towards which we, in the USA, are progressing: "Cameron Seeks To Expand Terrorism Laws To Target British Fighters" (http://www.npr.org/2014/09/02/345158356/cameron-seeks-to-expand-terrorism-laws-to-target-british-fighters) The UK and Europe are at the forefront in this struggle/prosecution; we are next unless we engage our youth and vulnerable with grass root outreach efforts as suggested by Mr. Rafiq in that first NPR Morning Edition segment. See More

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    · September 2 at 10:55am
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    Ed Rock · Top Commenter
    

    Hala Gheriani: "You are reading my script out of context and your repeated isolation of my 15 words out of 500 do not summarize my piece."
    
    The 15 words in question are in your piece, and were quoted with accuracy.
    
    End of story.

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    · September 3 at 7:15am
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    Hala Gheriani · Works at Federal Reserve Bank
    

    "Quoted with accuracy" yes but OUT of context and with complete disregard to the following sentences. Michael Brown's shooting is on everyone's mind no doubt and justice will prevail but it does not preclude the apocalyptic events with greater reach happening overseas and threatening to engulf us if we do not become actively involved in the drafting of our legislature and its application without forgoing grassroot social movements and media.

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    · September 3 at 7:52am
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    Ed Rock · Top Commenter
    

    Hala Gheriani: " 'Quoted with accuracy' yes but OUT of context ..."
    
    You are the context of what you say.
    
    Deaths by violence are never trivial, whether they are surrounded by controversy or not surrounded by controversy.
    
    You turned a person into an incident or a category, in your words if not in your 'heart.'

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    · 1 · September 3 at 10:03am
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    Hala Gheriani · Works at Federal Reserve Bank
    

    I stand by my words in their entirety and without any hidden meaning not bit and pieces; a puzzle is only complete when all its pieces are correctly connected...one just might miss Waldo. Michael Brown is an incident to all but his beloved family...the question is "what are you doing about it?" since you are so vested (?) in his person. No need to answer as I won't be bouncing the ball back and forth. Think about it as I shall.

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    · September 3 at 11:04am
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    Laura Tennison · Top Commenter · Springfield, Missouri
    

    Hala Gheriani “The referenced ‘battle-hardened soldiers and youths (indoctrinated in Afghanistan) coming back home’ I point out in my article are ‘the home-grown extremists’…”
    
    I just don’t get it. Like who? The isolated Timothy McVey?
    
    “ if my piece got ‘your neighbors and mine …’ to thinking about Blacks even though my piece was not about Blacks”
    
    Good grief. Does that balance out your carelessness in objectifying Michael Brown as your triviality foil right at the beginning of your article?

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    · September 3 at 12:09pm
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    Hala Gheriani · Works at Federal Reserve Bank
    

    Laura Tennison ,
    
    Timothy McVey is a terrorist of a different sort but under the correct circumstances, he too could have been recruited to the jihadist cause. I am talking about those radicalized men and women who are brainwashed in the US, sent to fight (and preferably earn martyrdom) for their 'cause', but end up coming back home to the States unchanged; defeated but not vanquished.
    I went looking for support of the above from a 'reliable' source to support what I know, per your request, and I came across another article this morning titled "Jihad Interrupted: Feds Grab ISIS Wannabes before they reach Syria" (http://www.nbcnews.com/storyline/isis-terror/jihad-interrupted-feds-grab-isis-wannabes-they-reach-syria-n195171). In this article, they highlight the young men and woman who were intercepted on their way to Syria but it ...also talks about the terrorists' recruits (youth with no hope). This article talks about the 'Shannon' and the 'Morgan' but how about the youth whose roots extend in the Middle East who may be going to their ancestral land to 'just' visit family?
    Again, this morning on BBC they were talking about the above youth back from Syria, in the UK. ==> these kids and the ones in the US need a social system to adopt them not further alienate them while we still have a chance. It is our responsibilities to engage them along with all the other minorities and disenfranchised to sooth their aches, fill-in their void, and answer their unanswered questions...we can't count on the government to do that, we need to step up to the plate and offer those services.
    
    As for Michael Brown, I used his name because he was on my mind as well as every one else's mind while the media is racking in advertising money with all the hoopla they created and incited. I am not blind to race because 'other' is usually my preferred and pointed out choice. If the big story of the day was about a cat, I would then have referenced it instead. The point I make is: "As bad as it is, it is still better than what is happening overseas but we also need to be more engaged and vote in those who walk their talk".
    
    Hala See More

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    · September 5 at 7:26am

  
  

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The lost generation of Libya

Not old enough to retire, not young enough to start all over.  Damn if
we do, damn if we don't; we are the bridge between the old and the new
and neither is tolerant of our tainted ways.  We continue to be the
ghosts of our forebearers and the fuel for generations to come  We are
seeing the specters of the past and the surety of our present.  We wish
to surrender but there is no victor in sight, we are dissected by our
roots in Libya and the foliage-ladden branches that have sprouted
overseas.

We were raised in a glass castle with the dying whispers of what could
have been.  We have a taste of our bitter-sweet waning dawn and the
back breaking struggle to survive and ultimatly escape our nightly cycle of
rebirth to finally find Nirvana  We are like the dafodils that endured
the harsh winter and managed to sprout just to be harvested for the
sole purpose of decoration.

We are the lost generation of Libyans who were born at the brink of
gadaffi's evil scheme, we are the ones who, in tow to their parents,
left Libya old enough to remember but not young enough to embrace the
new.  We are treated as foreigner when we go to Libya because of our
apparent bewilderment just to be called prehistorics when we make it a
point to stick to the Libyan language clear of any "yeah", "ok", and
"no"...the slang has changed and we did not get the memo.
We are treated like exotic samples by our new compatriots because of
our "gorgeous olive skin not prone to burn in the sun" and the ever
slight and misleading accent that is not quiet "Arabe", for those in
the know, not quiet "French", not quiet "Greek" but rather an amalgam
and trail of our complicated lives.  I had a friend, once, who told me
in a most sincere way and with no malignant sentiments "you immigrants
(forgetting his own roots) are becoming harder to distinguish with all
this globalization and all...".  I had to laugh and supress my hurt
feelings of having been lumped within that category, with a simple
shake of the head and a "didn't you know 'we' set the stage to
globalization...our autocrates invented diaspora and america's brain-drains
are fueling its progenitors" ... I don't think my friend got the
metaphors or my intended rebuff to his 'redneck' and egoistic self.

Such is our lives. We lived with and loved our parents who never
settled because "sayoor el ghareeb eblada" (Libyan proverb and exiles'
living motto meaning "the destiny of a stranger is his country") but
yet we grew up drinking the ethos of a host country for which we pledge
allegiance despite its unmeant but nevertheless discouraging efforts to
our assimilation...a complex oxymoron of pull and push.

The melting pot of oil and water

"Black, White, Yellow, and Red" this was my answer when the Anthropology professor asked the freshmen class to name the human races. 
The class did not laugh but my anthropology professor laughed so hard that his tears were creating rivers on his face amidst our drowned looks . 
"Wrong" he yelled, "African American, White, Asian, and American Indian is the correct answer".
I had the good sense not to correct the subject expert but my humble mind labored over my public humiliation for over two decades and I can yet to differentiate our answers although my maturity and seasoned American way has shed some light on the absurdity of the moment.
Maybe, my politically correct professor was not laughing at my answer but rather at my uncensored and honest reply uninhibited by the affirmative action folks who will eventually get under my skin as well. 
I was a freshly arrived foreign student and this affinity to submit to the order of the day was yet to be instilled.
In the Muslim world, where I come from, we say that "we are all the slaves of God" and yet in our colloquial language we refer to dark skinned individuals by the word "slaves" even though we are not much lighter than them and we share many of their features...hypocrisy at its best or is it human nature and the desire to be correct, under threat? 
Think about it. I have and I am tempted to blame our human nature and our willingness to conform.  Isn't that what the German people did under Hitler?  Isn't that what Obama, our black president, raised by a white woman, did when he lost his negro to be elected? Does that make it correct? Are we losing our humanity in an effort to gloss the obvious and benefit from our membership?
My overly friendly neighbors are welcoming to us and yet their truck is adorned with the confederate flag.  Our black friends are friendly to us and yet we don't get invited to their summer camps because "it is a Christian gathering".  We train our teachers about diversity and yet the superintended of our school explains "the relationship between a Muslim and Islam" like being "an American and a Christian". 
The examples abound and the solution is obvious but people will continue dancing to the beat of the moment and to the unfulfilled rewards of the equality mirage which we wholeheartedly contradict.
It is a sad day when I hear of more labels popping out and people being divided by this invisible line that is supposedly meant to bring them together.  I asked a friend of mine if a mutual friend of ours was Christian; she said "No, she is Catholic".  I was surprised at her answer but I am glad I did not brag about my religion because, only yesterday, the Shia and Sunni factions of Islam are dividing Syria and both sides are killing their fellow Muslims.  A close look at any religion will prove futile to any warring factions because all religions subscribe to peace and yet the young desperate men continue to bend under the will of powerful leaders and to find release for their suppressed testosterone...
People are turning against each other and they are hard pressed to offer forgiveness for the price of war, instead, someone out there, usually a third party, is getting rich and their goals are being served. 
In this country, it is not yet a raging war and the devil is busy with easier and more lucrative markets overseas but I sense it and it is coming in my children's life time when they will take refuge from their neighbors or even be moved to concentration camps for their likes because they don't really belong; they really aren't Black, White, Yellow, or Red, and they might still profess to the Islamic religion.  The federal ethnicity categories are expanding but they are yet to comprise all the races as I see it and "other" is usually my choice unless I am made to abide to my Federal classification of White.  I may be White on paper but we do not fit the White classification of the general public nor ours and yet we submit, or should we rather be grateful, to Uncle Sam's blindness.  Why do we even need this classification other then to further bleed and enlarge the schism.
I say an African American man is a black man if his skin is as rich as mahogany and he is proud of his fore-bearers.  I say an American Indian is red if his skin is the color of the red dirt that was soaked in his ancestors' blood.  I say an Asian American is Yellow if his eyes are slanted like a beautiful crescent shining over us.  I say a White is White if the fruits of his labor propelled us into the industrial revolution.  I say we are all Americans if our combined contributions are greater than our individual offerings and if we pledge allegiance to this country above any other while being human, sincere, raw and yet gentle like we were meant by the creator.
I say enough bigotry and politics because it is not bringing us together but rather splitting us like running a finger through a spider web.  The spider and our humanity will keep mending the fence but sooner or later the spider will run out of thread and unless the pointing finger is severed, humanity will be lost.

Streams of memories

I was asked this last Friday to talk about my memories in Libya, I was asked to open the pandora box.  I was not prepared for this simple and yet obvious question and my answers are eating at me, my love for Libya is chiding me.  My internal shame was amplified by the supernatural desire that brought out all the bad memories and not enough of the good ones.  I am wondering why, why was I so weak to bend my desire to frame Libya in the best of light and make for a joyful interview?  Why did I whimper and let the dark side take over!  WHY?!?!?!?!!! I have many memories and now that I have regained my composure, I see them exiting in an orderly file, the good and the bad, with no feeling of hate towards a regime that abruptly came to an end but is yet dominating the Libyan ethos.

1970s
I remember running through the shallow Mediterranean waters. I remember teasing the gentle waves and eluding them under their weight. I remember basking in the evening sun and running barefoot, on scalding hot sand, to reach the refuge of the mesmerizing water.  I remember laughing with not a care in the world.  I remember building sand castles for hours on end and then sit and watch them gracefully disappear like the sun in the horizon.  I remember playing hide and seek with my 24 carat gold jewelry in the sand and I remember being very generous.

I remember being dropped off by the driver with my teenage cousins, at Benghazi's sailing club.  I remember the abundance of food sent with us; enough to feed my brothers' basketball team.  I remember the watermelon bobbing in the water, within the protection of our sand castle, and the chicken drumsticks and potato stews always made better by the ever present sand.  I remember forgetting to bring a knife for the watermelon, a usual occurrence that brought delight to our hearts.  I remember the fruit's loud crack on a favorite rock and I remember being among the elite group of youngsters who were allowed to dig-in a few minutes before the onslaught of the other spoons, driven by excited hands, in the red sweet flesh of our maimed watermelon.  I remember having those daydreams as I was reading "The lord of the Flies"; I was always Simon and never the wicked Ralph.  I remember being rinsed in the garden, under the canopy of jasmine, with the garden hose; I remember the deluge of sand streaming out of my hair and I remember the taste of that well-water of which I couldn't get enough. I remember marvelling at how brown my skin had gotten.

I remember walking hand in hand with my dad through the Greek ruins of Cyrenaica captivated by his description of the Greek Gods and their glory.  I remember seeing the ocean in the distance and feeling the sand, riding the seabreeze, caressing my ankles.  I remember walking into Zeus' temple and being surrounded by enormous pillars, while twirling, with my arms outstretched, on mosaic floors thousands of years old.  I remember diverting my vision from the pale blue skies to be met by a row of headless stone nymphs, comforted only by the trickle of water still murmuring their songs, in centuries old aqueducts.

I remember being at the sailing club, in the shower areas, on my knees, listening to soothing words from an adult male; I don't remember his face, he did not touch me, I was off limit, but I was fascinated and not afraid.

I remember the throbbing pulses under my firm grip; I remember the final bleating and the knife being drawn in one swift and agile movement.  I remember the warm blood gushing on my fingers like a spring stream kicking into action for the last time.  I remember jolting back to reality when the pulse is no more and the blood is pooling by my feet. I remember the lamb's glossy eyes looking into nothing; I remember licking my dish clean from the BBQ sauce.

1978
I remember driving with my sister and seeing the bodies, still jerking, hanging from the ropes; they
were Benghazi's boys, they were brave and they were caught but not my teenage brothers.  I remember my mom pacing in our vast back yard, listening for running footsteps and weighing in her options.  I remember her furtively leading them to my uncle's basement, a rarity then, as they increased in numbers in our sanctuary.  I remember the sirens and the loud knocking on our door, I remember my mom taking her time and composing herself, and I remember hiding behind this incredibly strong woman and amazing actress while she blatantly lied to the security forces about the rogue youth "destroying our revolutionary dawn".  I remember my brothers and their friends, barely men, huddled in the dark basement.  I remember being but an invisible shadow to my mom, too afraid to leave her and she all too conscience of my presence. 

I remember the sea of boxes littering our veranda after they had 'cleaned up', as in nationalized, my dad's empire.  I remember our Egyptian help, men and women, crying in the far fetches of our home.  I remember seeing my dad, in his real form, for the last time, and my mom's fierce eyes too proud to show grief. (see 'The shattering of dreams' for full story)

I remember Naima on her wedding night; I remember her jolly face and misunderstood beatification.  I remember the last drawn blood of the evening to great fanfare and personal heartbreak.  I remember her tears drawing a line in my conscience and the jasmine's tiny white flowers contrasting with a bleak scene.  I remember the grasping for air as if I was next, I remember the chorus of ululations fueling my fears. (see 'The breaking of glass' for full story)

1979
I remember sitting in a miniscule apartment, in Greece, fighting to take it all in, claustrophobic, and watching my dad's marbled face as he was serenaded by Pavarotti’s strong voice in 'La Boheme'.  I remember getting sick flying economy class for the first time; I remember the kindness of strangers.  I remember the strange world we had landed in, I remember the confusion of a young mind, I remember missing my family now taking refuge in other countries.

1984
I remember getting on the private medical airplane, leaving my 18 year old brother Oussama in Greece, alone to battle his monsters while in the safe confines of our dreary apartment, away from gadafi's reaches.  I remember them resuscitating my dad so that he may take his last breath in Benghazi.  I remember my dad passing away a week later and Oussama calling to check on 'daddy' just to be told, by a stranger, that his dad had lost his battle with cancer.  I remember my dad's last words "Hala and Oussama" and the doors they opened for me.  I remember my mom using those same words when pressured to stay back in Libya and raise the girl there.  I remember her finishing up her mandatory 40 days of grieving in Greece alone and happy to send me off to school every day.  I remember the phone calls from a then married brother, in the States, shaming my mom for her sacrifice while disregarding a dead man's wish.

I remember my mom teaching herself how to read and write, in that same apartment, away from her busy and worthy life in Benghazi.  I remember waking up at night and finding her writing the Arabic alphabet and sounding it out; I was often lulled back to sleep on the sound of the pencil grinding under her firm hand threatening to succumb under the pressure.

1989
I remember getting the long awaited phone call from the US embassy informing me that my student visa was ready.  I remember my mom, feeling vindicated for her 'sins', standing with Oussama, looking at me with a pride she had not felt since 1978.  I remember Oussama congratulating me on what he had failed to achieve.

I remember being sent to that same stranger of a brother to pursue my education in the US, I remember the struggle to adjust to having a brother after 19 years of loneliness.  I remember my being beat for having boys as my friends. I remember missing my mom and suppressing my yearning for the lost freedom and independence that came with trust.  I remember leaving, without farewells, to go live with another brother with whom I became more humble to avoid my disastrous stay with the elder.

I remember not knowing how to tie my shoes at the age of 19; my mom had assumed the role of maid.  I remember my American sister-in-law, kindly showing me how to "loop the laces, hold them tight, and pull".  I remember my accomplices and my heartbreaking 'crimes'.

1993
I remember graduating with honors in record time and wishing for a mother's embrace.  I remember allowing myself to truly fall in love because he was Libyan.  I remember the closing of a chapter and a wedding void of my mom.  I remember my first paycheck at $4 an hour and I remember the NSF notices from the bank.  I remember the half-emptied bottle and my saving grace; the crystal clear image of my mom waving in my stupor.  I remember the sighting of a light at the end of my tunnel...

1998
I remember no more because I now live the moment and challenge it to last; it is balsam to my wounds and I am tired of licking them.

The shattering of dreams

I had lived in a glass castle for the first 8 years of my life but that too was shattered on an unforgettable night in Paris.  It was August 1978, the sly gaddafi had been leading Libya for 8 years consolidating his powers, silencing his rivals, infiltrating the Libyan society with his minions and thugs, and waiting to seize the moment.  We were in route back to Benghazi, Libya, from the States.  We had stopped in Paris, to wrap up our vacation with a few well placed purchases from the Champ Elysee.  I was nestled between my parents in an upscale restaurant when my dad had gotten the notice.  My usually undenied requests to stay longer were brushed aside and we were homeward bound the next day.  Gaddafi had nationalized my Dad's company and, overnight, my Dad had lost an empire built over thirty long years and two bankruptcies.  I don't remember the trip back to our house, I am sure it was quick, silent, and nerve racking to my Father.    Benghazi had just gotten a visit from the southern winds laden with the Sahara's finest brown sand.  The winds were still rumbling and teasing the already brown and dried out leaves on the huge eucalyptus trees lining up our street.  We drove into our neighborhood of grandiose homes still defiantly standing, although beaten, by the sand storm and its menacing grinding sand.
I remember pulling up to a cordoned street, our street.  It was eerily quiet and dark, the orchestra of wild birds that greeted people to our home was silent.  The sand storm had painted everything brown; the army trucks, their camouflaged canopy, and the green clad soldiers stood out as the only colorful objects in a brown painting.  Our street was unusually deserted, not a neighbor in sight, not a single servant welcoming us home, not a stray dog barking wildly, no feral cats begging for food.  I stepped out of the car and my black shiny shoes sank in a layer of dust licking at my already brown ruffled pants.  I remember sneezing and inhaling a lungful of air tainted with the desert sand still freshly laid on everything in sight.  The commotion of the soldiers was whipping out its own mini sand storm; my eyes were stinging but the tear drop I felt was no mine; it was my dad's.  He was towering over me with a forced smile telling me to walk straight on to my room and not to linger.  My Mom was standing next to me transfixed by the real meaning of the moment; her grasp on my hand was tight and cold defying the warm evening temperature of a late summer day.  My dad had disappeared and I proceeded by walking up the stairs to our vast veranda littered with boxes upon boxes of papers freshly unloaded from the trucks.  Some loose leaf papers were still fluttering, like injured birds, before being smothered to death by the soldiers' uncaring footsteps.  Our compound felt like a military base, it was buzzing with young revolutionaries clad to "wipe our likes from the face of this earth".  They were in frenzy under the spell of the loud speakers jutting from one of the trucks; Gaddafi's scathing voice was reverberating against the marble surfaces amplified by the eerie silence of nature.  The soldiers were in a frenzy of allegiance and their mocking eyes and insults were the final blow to my glass castle and my parents' dreams.  I was returning to a hostile takeover and the beginning of a nightmare that will last 40 years.  My dad was powerless, I was still clueless, my mom was defiant.  The next few days our house was filled with a stream of people, who had worked for my dad; some were crying, others left shaking their heads, and a few continued to make the pilgrimage over the next forty years, and even after my dad had passed away, to pay their respect to a truly amazing man, my dad; "he was a kind, just, and generous man" I was told.  I wanted to scream back that my dad is gone, he was only a shell of his former self but, as expected of me, I continued to smile while they etched these painful words in my subconscious. 

The breaking of glass

I was young, barely 7. What I lacked in wisdom, I made up for it by a photographic memory that still haunts me well into my middle ages.

There was a wedding, it was in August; the warm breeze of the evening was unusually crisp and it sent shivers through my slim frame.  I was standing on a balcony overlooking the distant Libyan seafront; I was scouting for the arrival of the groom.

The air was permeated by the sea breeze and the smell of exotic frankincense being burnt to ward off the bad spirits on this joyous occasion; Naima is getting married, "so young and voluptuous, her face looked like a full moon" they would often say.

I could also taste the smell of fresh blood, that of the lambs slaughtered earlier today to feed the throngs of women and children still trickling in, past midnight, to witness the highlight of the evening.  Shot guns were fired, the groom has arrived and I was going to miss him meeting the bride, for the first time, and leading her to what will become their bedroom at his parents' house.

I ran, I stretched my pace at the expense of my delicate dress; I heard it being torn at the seam as I extended my limbs but I still ran to see the happy couple being marched to their bedroom with great fanfare. The singing was reenergized, the whispers were more audible, the synchronized ululations were deafening, the groom was drunk (now I know), the bride was walking by his side with a shy smile evoking the image of the little girl, that she was, being led to a surprise.  I was at the top of the stairs, I had a bird's eye view of the little lamb being led to his sacrifice, they were walking towards me and their room immediately under the circular staircase...little did I know then.

The door shut, the jubilation took another turn and the decibel of the cacophony was at its greatest at the top of the stairs where I stood.  I was transfixed in place, I couldn't move, the party was raging below me but the strain on the old ladies' faces was palpable and the guns went silent; they were being loaded with one single shot.

They say that a man satisfies half his religious duties with marriage and, standing there, I was happy to know that Naima was participating in this glorious and divine duty.  Naima's family is poor but this fact was not lessening her role in this all important mission; I was waiting to see the transformation first hand.

The door opened, the groom walked out undeterred and crisp, the same way he had walked in.  There was no hallow around his head, he did not imbue any divine aura, but he did have in his hands a handkerchief, the one earlier in his pocket, now stained with red.  The stained cloth was nonchalantly passed to a waiting elder; she was expecting it.  I was straining to understand the significance of that white cloth; its appearance magically wiped off the strained faces and imbued them with cheer joy.  I was missing something; curiosity defeated my restrains and the tomboy in me saddled the balustrade and was propelled in the midst of a wave of married women into the bedroom.  I was suffocating, the room was unusually hot, and only the cold corner of the blocked wall kept me from escaping this inferno.  I heard the single shot fired in the air and it was, as if a signal, the indication of a new era for Naima, a much respected married woman now, and her husband.

She won't be buried tomorrow by noon, the single shot did clear the air after all and, I am sure her brothers are being congratulated as was her mom back at home.  I was not there witnessing this scenario but it was screaming at me from my memories and mingling with the cries and whimpers of the still young but now disheveled moon-faced bride.  Once again, I had a perfect view, at eye level, but this
time I stood there in horror barely able to breath and comprehend the complexity of the scene and the juxtaposition of pure joy to that of the uncontrollable sobs of a little girl whose walk to a surprise was shattered by the brutal robbing of her virginity.  I did not know that then but I knew, immediately, that I had just witnessed the slaughter of the last lamb that evening.

The air smelled of blood, cheap perfume, and raw sweat. Naima was laying in bed, her face was covered by perspiration and tears, her hair was in disarray, her eyes were shut refusing the reality of the moment.  Her body was shivering unable to keep up with the tremors of her sobs and yet unwilling to release the last breathe of the living. She was there but the life and laughter that usually inhabits her soul had vacated the premises, in a hurry.

 I could see many hands working in absolute proficiency to erase the savageness of what had transpired; they were, like scam artists, intent on sweeping the shards under the rug.  They say that “glass, once broken cannot be replaced” but my elders forgot to mention that, in good times, when it is shattered, it will be done in public and with complete disregard to the human within.  Some were making the bed, oblivious to the throbbing of a wounded heart within its folds, others were fanning and slapping the moon-shaped face, some were busy wiping the sweat and tears covering the distorted face, while others were busy clapping in tandem and accompanying a chorus of songs and laughter that cut through the warm air like a northern front.
If not for the tremors radiating from the body, I could have sworn it was a status of the Virgin Mary being prepared for a parade. A few kind hearts were propping the bride and drowning her in sugared water meant to invigorate her spirit while others were rearranging the hair and dotting it with freshly picked, innocently white and tiny, jasmine flowers.  The specks of trembling white flowers, juxtaposed to their black background, reminded me of sheep caught on a grey, stormy and thunderous evening, out in open unprotected and in clear sight of the howling wolves.

 I was lost in the moment, lost in interpretations, lost in my own glass castle.  Naima was going through a transformation and I wanted nothing to do with it; I am not getting married.  I slithered through the folds of robes; the door seemed far away, and yet so close.  I was making progress through the sea of matriarchs but I was also being rocked back and forth, back and forth the the rythm of their songs, as if by seismic motion.  Fear was closing in, hope was fading, the door was disappearing, and I was enclosed by darkness and propelled only by my saving grace and survival instinct. I screamed as I broke free and I welcomed the first breath of the sea breeze back up on the balcony.

I freed myself but not my friend who was duped into believing.  I lived on, embracing my tom boy more openly; I wanted to be the Sheppard not the lamb.  I never did make it to see Naima again.  The flood gates remain shut if not for the occasional leak such as this one and that too will be sealed tight.  I am to live with the memories and I am to carry this burden until I can look at the age-beaten face of my childhood bride without tasting the blood and feeling like the scam artists of that day because this is what has happened as I progressed through life with a self-imposed polished imaged of a Saint.

I slipped through the cracks and I saw the unthinkable. Although I continue to roam this earth, a part of me is still there unable to escape the torment of a soul and the vivid images that refuse to die. I wonder if Naima, a divorced mother of six, was able to extract herself from this bottomless abyss in which she was pushed. I wonder if her girls have escaped the same fate or if they have continued the vicious circle of glass breaking.