Battle of The Indices

The clock hits 4.30pm and the battle begins.

Each sat in their own room, at opposite ends of the house, one on his reclining chair, with his feet up on the table in front of him. The other lying down, relaxing after a long day in school, on the couch, with salt and vinegar crisps conveniently placed within hand reach.

Both are clicking away at the small black buttons, each having a different number in mind. The white numbers have started to fade away, leaving the evidence for these persistent and childish acts.

With every successful click of his, her face reacts involuntarily to the results that appear on the screen. Lips mouthing incoherent, newly coined words and nose that has become asymmetrical, one half higher than the other, she determinedly presses hard on her chosen button “back up”, which never changes.

After ten minutes of this futile and frustrating game (to her) she decided to be the bigger person and give up the fight.

Remote controls, regardless of their revolutionary, lazy inducing advantages, turn everyone, whether it was the 80 year old or the already young 14 year old, into petty children.

As I’m sat on my desk, working away, “Hilwa Ya Balady” playing softly in the background…a feeling, a fleeting image took me back to my grandparent’s house.

I was asking granddad to put on Dalida, after the pleading my wish was granted and the living room was turned into our dance studio. The music begins playing and my sister and I would be lost into its melody, arms flailing, spinning round and round until we were too dizzy to stand up and maybe fall once or twice while we gracefully jump from sofa to sofa.

Slowly the treasures of my grandparent’s house would come out of their drawers and cupboards. The Hijil, that was too big for our tiny ankles and the bright green piece of cloth that we would tie around our non existent bottoms, were an essential detail for our performance. The smiles and giggles accompanied us throughout the evening.

Those were the days when grandparents were young and fun to be with. Now I look at granddad, the most active person I’ve known all my life, sitting at his desk reading his newspaper with eyes slowly drifting and closing into a sleep that was brought by boredom. He shuffles his way from his study to the kitchen to his bedroom like an old person whose life has become a burden on him.

I’m sure he’s still the same person, somewhere the tennis player, the gardener enthusiast and the opinionated jido is there. I can hear it in his voice and see it sometimes but these occasions are becoming rare occurrences. The sharpness and attentiveness have been taken over by the unfocused, blue rimmed brown eyes.

Bebe has turned into this unhappy and depressed being. Only when her sons and family visit does she smile from deep within her heart. They give her purpose to life. Yet, this is taken away just as easily as it is brought, by their parting.

It is sad to think that once upon a time my Bebe and Jido were full of life and laughter.
I miss them and I miss being a child, unaware of these realities.

The disfigured princess

I have stumbled upon this amazing song. It is by Tina Arena and it's called Je m'appelle Bagdad.
I fell in love with the song once i listened to it. It's beautifully written and so true.

This is the link for the video (hopefully it works):
http://videos.tf1.fr/video/musique/clips/clips_s/0,,3297561,00.html

and here is the meaning of the lyrics:

J’ai vécu heureuse - I lived happily
Dans mes palais - in my palaces
D’or noir et de pierres précieuses - of black gold and precious stones
Le Tigre glissait - The Tigris was flowing
Sur les pavés de cristal - on crystal cobblestones
Mille califes se bousculaient - thousand caliphs lined up
Sur mes carnets de bal - on my bal lists

On m’appelait - They called me
La Cité pleine de grâce - the city full of grace
Dieu - God
Comme le temps passe - how time goes by

On m’appelait - they called me
Capitale de lumière - capital of light
Dieu - God
Que tout se perd - everything gets lost

*Chorus*
Je m’appelle Bagdad - My name is Baghdad
Et je suis tombée - and I fell
Sous le feu des blindés - under the fire of the tanks
Sous le feu des blindés - under the fire of the tanks
Je m’appelle Bagdad - My name is Baghdad
Princesse défigurée - defaced princess
Et Shéhérazade - and Sheherazad
M’a oubliée - has forgotten me

Je vis sur mes terres - I live on my land
Comme une pauvre mendiante - as a poor begger
Sous les bulldozers - under the bulldozers
Les esprits me hantent - ghosts haunt me
Je pleure ma beauté en ruine - I weep over my beauty in ruins
Sous les pierres encore fumantes - under stones still smoldering
C’est mon âme qu’on assassine - its my soul they murder

On m’appelait - they called me
Capitale de lumière - capital of light
Dieu - God
Que tout se perd - everything gets lost

*Chorus*

Mes contes des mille et une nuits - My thousands and one nights stories
N’intéressent plus personne - don't interest anybody anymore
Ils ont tout détruit - they destroyed everything

*Chorus*

The First and Hopefully Not The Last

The past beats inside me like a second heart.

When I left Baghdad everything there was time frozen. The people that have passed away are still living in my memory, my friends are still attending second year of high school and most importantly Baghdad and the whole of Iraq is proceeding in this universe peacefully. What I see on the news is another city, another country and a whole different world that I do not recognise. The entire affair does not seem real to me as if it's a movie that will shortly end.