Writing is the Solution (Answer).

Just like the many instances which result in intermittent inconsistent posts on this blog, my motivation is a need to write and in the not-so-expressive parlance, blow off some steam. Even the grammar of this post seems to be on a slow start, but why care when the need is to just write rather than please the uncaring non-existent reader?
But what's wrong? 
Maybe the fact that I should be studying rather than contemplate writing. And write what? Nothing of great value. I don't want to write about the realities of my life right now. This writing should be about abstract concepts - the eyes of a girl, the feelings a sullen man, the events of an imaginary instance. But is this the extent of my evolution as a person? The feelings of years ago are the same except for their sharp bluntness. A decade since my supposed emergence into awareness of life's affairs seems to have not changed anything really. I'm still me, but with wider barriers and increased alert to the consequences of every step, every word, every feeling, every letter. There is a price for every action. And maybe that's why adults are stymied and held back. Life, as seemingly beautiful as it seems, is the accumulation of overlapping layers and folds, deafening our actual instincts and uniforming our behavior with a few differences for the fun of it; just because life would be really boring without those differences. But even those differences are seemingly controlled and kept within a boundary. Anything beyond the boundary is genuine taboo, rejected by the living and the dead. Aren't we the sum of historic orders and commands sent upon us 3000, 2000, 1400 years? The stagnancy of constitutions and charters is by design. This is a small revolution. I'm revolting against the idea of forming thoughts, preparing outlines and writing intelligible concepts. The freedom of arbitrary sentences onto a white electronic expanse is liberating in some way. There is nothing to be gained by reading this, but there is a lot by writing it, I think. At least I'm feeling a bit better but the thing that pushed me into writing this will sure and soon enough be rearing its mystical face as soon as I'm done. It's like the satisfaction one received by smoking a cigarette; you're pushed into doing it and you're comfortable as you're smoking, but what's there to be gained? Because as soon as you're done you'll know that the comfort will be replaced by normalcy and following that a small itch will evolve into another push towards another cigarette. The difference, I guess, is the lack of awareness that accompanies the smoking of a cigarette. It's simple: light the lighter, bring the edge of the cigarette into the flame and drag, and do so until it's done. An absolute beginning followed by an inevitable end. Always the same all the time. At least this, I guess, provides something more than the absolute mechanism that a cigarette operates in. Maybe a sentence of brilliance emerges, and maybe the satisfaction of writing is not really fulfilled, and maybe once the urge to write again arrives, the urge turns into something other than writing, because this doesn't really help. Yes, this is where the evolution of my character got me; towards excruciating randomness. At least, though, none of my words are underlined with a squiggly red line.
A new paragraph. This feels good. I'll regret the minutes I took to write this, but it feels good. Just like the drag of a cigarette. But this exposes something even more sinister than I assumed as I began writing. The lack of substance is dumbfounding. Did I really live my life to not be able to write anything of substance on a white electronic expanse when I really have the freedom to do so? Pfsht! Where are the abstract feelings of a sullen man? It's scary because even though I don't fear the judgment of a reader on this, I fear what others think of those abstract writings, and this is where my reluctance stems from. But maybe it's also because I really lack the vigor I once had for such writings. I am devoid of the circumstances that cause such thoughts to form. Again, I return to the effect of life on one's life! I'm not divulging something new; it's why children are creative, and most adults are not.
Now I know why I write sometimes. It's because I have something important to do and I really do not want to do it. I really don't! I'm also going to be defeated by my arrogance. Is it sad that after two years of not posting anything on this blog, I write this piece of utter B.S.?
A little bit of substance and context: I'm returning home soon to begin a life of actual adulthood. I fear my failure and maybe that's why I cling to what was before my looming adulthood. I believe in a hashtag that once trended: الكتابة هي الحل - writing is the solution (answer). Maybe it is, maybe it's not. 

نحن البلاد

في حين بدأت تتعالى الأصوات الداعية للمشاركة بالانتخابات القادمة في ٢٠١٧ بعد نادرة قرب اتمام المجلس الحالي مدته الدستورية الكاملة، أرى بأن أسباب المقاطعة ما زالت قائمة وأن الخضوع للضغوط الشعبية الداعية للمشاركة ما هو إلا خيانة لمن دفع فاتورة المطالبة بالإصلاح السياسي في السجن والحرمان من المواطنة، وغيرهم ممن عانوا بطش الحكومة للدفع بأجندتها الدكتاتورية بمعاونة زمر الإفساد. 

لا أريد الكتابة عن السوابق التاريخية التي تبين سلبيات الخضوع للمسرحية الانتخابية السمجة القادمة ولا عن العهود المتتالية التي نقضتها الحكومة على مر سنين الكويت في ظل دستور ٦٢، ولكنني أريد فقط تذكير القارئ بالواقع المرير الذي نعيشه اليوم في ما يراد تسميته الكويت. الواقع هو بأننا نعيش بعهد لا يمت للديمقراطية بصلة. اليوم في الكويت يتم سحب الجناسي بلا حسيب ولا رقيب، اليوم في الكويت يخرج لنا شخص من الأسرة الحاكمة يرتدي بدلة عسكرية رسمية على التلفزيون ليقذف مواطنون ومقيمون بعنصرية مقيتة بلا احترام. اليوم في الكويت هنالك أكثر من ٦٠٠ شخص ملاحق لقضايا تتعلق بممارسات ديمقراطية حقة مكفولة في الإعلان العالمي لحقوق الانسان ومنهم من يقضي وقته في السجن. اليوم في الكويت هنالك من قضى أيام وأسابيع في السجن لاتهامات أثبتت المحاكم بطلانها وبرائتهم ولم يحاسب أحد على هذا التعسف. اليوم في الكويت ليست هنالك رياضة يستطيع بها أبناء الكويت رفع اسمها في المحافل الدولية نتيجة لصراع بين أشخاص في الأسرة الحاكمة لا يساوون ظفر رجل أحد من هؤلاء الشباب والبنات الرياضيون. في الكويت اليوم أشخاص لا يمتلكون الجنسية الكويتية نتيجة لمهازل إدارية حكومية. الكويت اليوم تمر بأزمة اقتصادية والحكومة غير قادرة حتى على استيعاب المشكلة قبل التفكير بحلها.

إن كانت هذه هي مظاهر دولة المؤسسات والديمقراطية التي تريد المشاركة بمسرحيتها القادمة فأهلاً وسهلاً بسذاجتك. 

الإنتخابات القادمة وإن كانت نزيهة وترشح بها أشخاص يريدون الإصلاح حقاً، فإنها لن تغني ولن تسمن من جوع في الوقت الحالي. مجريات الواقع الكويتي منذ ٢٠١١ وضحت الحقيقة التالية: "لا يؤمنون بالديمقراطية ويمقتون الشعب الكويتي ويريدون نهبها بأقسى سرعة ممكنة قبل السفر لقصورهم بجنيف ولندن ونيويروك (نيوجرسي للدقة)." مجلس الأمة الكويتي الذي يمتاز بقدرة نسبية للتشريع والمراقبة باستقلالية ليس السبيل نحو رفعة الكويت وانقاذها ممن يتحكم بها بعنجهية وكره. ما المانع الدستوري والسياسي من توافر أسباب جديدة للضرورة تبرر اصدار قانون جديد ينظم العملية الانتخابية (تغيير الدوائر من ٥ إلى ٣٦ مثلاً) إن فرضنا دخول مجلس الأمة ٥٠ اصلاحيا في ٢٠١٧؟ ما المانع من حل مجلس الأمة بعد ثلاثة شهور من بداية الفصل التشريعي؟ ما المانع من ابطال مجلس الأمة نتيجة لخطأ اجرائي تقترفه حكومة قادمة؟ وإن لم يحصل أي من السابق، فإن السوابق "الحميدة" التي سُنت في المجلسين الفائتين قد نزعت الأنياب الأليفة التي كان يتمتع بها مجلس الأمة أساساً، أداة الاستجواب أصبحت نكتة يتدلدغ منها الوزراء. وإن كنا سنحاسب، نحاسب من؟ الوزراء؟ هم أكثر من هم مساكين في الكويت، وكلنا نعرف بأن العلة ليست الوزراء بل قيادات ادارية بالبلد وأبناء الأسرة الحاكمة وعوائل أخرى مُحصنون من المسائلة الحقيقية وهل نسينا حادثة الوزير شعيب المويزري مع أحد هؤلاء عندما كان وزيراً؟

أخي القارئ، أهلا مرة أخرى، إلى الآن مقتنع بأن المشاركة أسلم لنا من مقاطعة العملية الانتخابية في الوقت الحالي؟ أعلم اشتياقك لسباق المرشحين وأدرينالين النتائج ووناسة المقرات الانتخابية ونشوة الفوز. أعلم بأنك تريد الخير للبلد وبأن قوى المعارضة قد خذلتك. أعلم بأن الأفق أصبح ضيقاً والنظرة للأمام ملؤها العتمة وبأنك تريد صنع التغيير بأقل التكاليف الممكنة. أعلم بأنك خشيت أن يحصل لك ما حصل لعياد الحربي وسارة الدريس وراشد العنزي وعبدالرحمن العجمي وعبدالله فيروز وعبدالله البرغش، فخف احتجاجك عندما رأيت عائلتك وخفت على نفسك. أعلم بأنك تسأل: إن كان الكل قد سكت وخف صوته، لم لا يهدأ صوتك كذلك؟ لم لا تمارس (حقك الديمقراطي) كالآخرين وتستخدم جنسيتك للتصويت "للأصلح" أو لمن سيستعجل بمعاملتك أو لمن سيخدم طائفتك أو قبيلتك وكفى؟ ألم يفوزوا؟ 

أعلم بأن كل ما كُتب آنفاً بمقالي معروف وهو فقط اعادة صياغة لوقائع عايشناها كلنا، ولهذا فإن مقالي لا يقتصر عليه فقط. الرسالة التي أريد بعثها من هذا المقال هو بأننا في مفترق طرق مهم جداً في تاريخنا الكويتي. أعتقد بأننا الآن أُعطينا حرية اختيار المسلك الذي نريد، والذي سنذكره لأبنائنا وأحفادنا بعد سنين، جيداً كان أم سيء. الجيل الكويتي الجديد يعلم بأننا نعيش بمهزلة ولديه القدرة إما للعودة لما كنا عليه منذ ١٩٦٢ أو النظر للأمام وصنع تغيير حقيقي لا يقتصر على تعديل نظام انتخابي فقط. نملك القدرة على فرض نظام يجسد بكل فاعلية ما ورد بالمادة السادسة من الدستور الكويتي "الســيــــادة فيه للأمـــــــــــة مصـــــدر الســــــلــــطــــات جميعا." آمن الأباء المؤسسون بهذه الجملة ففرضوها على صناع القرار في ذلك الحين، ونحن لسنا أقل من هؤلاء ونملك فرضها حقيقةً على صناع القرار اليوم كذلك. نملك العمل نحو برلمان تمثيلي حقيقي بفاعلية وقوة تملك المحاسبة الحقيقية والتشريع لرفع هامة الكويت لا ترضية لأطراف الفساد. نحو برلمان لا يُحل إلا بإرادته. نحو برلمان لا تشترى ولاءاته بحقائب أو بخدمات. نملك العمل نحو حكومة تخرج من رحم الشعب الكويتي وتمثل إرادته الحقيقية، ولا تكون مناصبه لإرضاء قبيلة أو طائفة أو عائلة بل لإرضاء الكويت. نحو حكومة يستطاع محاسبتها على كل صغيرة وكبيرة. نحو جهاز إداري تكون قياداته مبنية على كفاءة أصحابها لا جيناتهم. نحو رئيس مجلس وزراء خارج الأسرة الحاكمة لديه مؤهلات القيادة ويكتسب ثقة ممثلو الشعب بعمله لا برفع عقاله أو حقائب الدفع المسبق. نملك العمل نحو سلطة قضائية مستقلة تحترم أسس القانون وتبحث عن العدل الحقيقي. وكل هذا يتحقق بعمل ديمقراطي حقيقي خارج اطار العملية الانتخابية الهزلية القادمة. 

أيتها القارئة، تثقفي واقرأي عن التجارب الديمقراطية الأخرى في أوروبا وأمريكا وآسيا. اعرفي قدرتك على التغيير وفرض ما تريدين من رفعة وتنمية لك ولدولتك عن طريق القواعد الشبابية والتحركات السياسية الجادة. كوِّني فكرك السياسي واشتركي بالجماعة السياسية القريبة من فكرك، وتعرفي على غيرك ممن يشاطرك الرغبة بالتغيير. اقتنصي كل فرصة تستطيعين بها مناقشة الحالة الكويتية مع أي شخص وتحدي نفسك بكل رأي لا يناسبك وفنديه. اذهبي للندوات السياسية والصالونات الثقافية، اعملي على مشروع سياسي يُخرج الكويت من مهزلته. ثقفي من هم حواليك من مجاميع شعبية. اعرفي المعاناة التي يمر بها عديمو الجنسية، ومعتقلو الرأي، وحاولي تغيير الحال نحو الأفضل، فأنتِ من يخشونه زمر الفساد وعناصر الأتقراطية في الكويت. صوتك النقي وعزيمتك الصادقة هي التي ستسقطهم من أبراجهم العاجية. أنتِ روح عبدالله السالم ودواوين الإثنين وحقوق المرأة السياسية ونبيها خمس وارحل وكرامة وطن. أنتِ الديمقراطية الكويتية بأبهى صورها وأصدق حالاتها لا مسرحيتهم الإنتخابية السمجة. 

وبهذا أدعو كل قارئ وقارئة لهذه المقالة مقاطعة الانتخابات القادمة وعدم المشاركة بأي عمل يضفي شرعية غير مستحقة لمؤسسات لا تحترمنا. أدعوكم لصنع التغيير الحقيقي واتمام "الرغبة في استكمال أسباب الحكم الديمقراطي لوطننا العزيز."

"نحن البلاد وسكان البلاد وما        فيها لنا، إننا السكان والسكن

اليوم للشعب والأمس المجيد له        له غد وله التاريخ         والزمن

فليخسأ الظلم ولتذهب حكومته        ملعونة وليولي عهدها      النتن

المجد للشعب والحكم المطاع له     والفعل والقول وهو القائل اللسن."

- من قصيدة لعبدالله البردوني عن اليمن. 

*أعتذر عن الأخطاء الإعرابية. 

Law School Finals II

Here I am once more, in the midst of another grueling season of law exam finals wasting time at a late, or early, hour writing about my current miserable existence. Well it's not really miserable, it's tiring and overshadowed by doubt as to my knowledge of the courses I'm about to be tested about. And seemingly, I can't even write coherent English sentences.

So yup, another semester. More memories I guess. More law-like intelligence I'm assuming, or hoping. I guess I can say stuff like: "O darling, you have truly adversely possessed my heart," or "you broke it by breaching your duty of good faith, although only a few jurisdictions recognize that duty in termination clauses." This is utterly pathetic, right?

Let me write about something else. The beginning of this semester created something different in the way I look. I developed a condition called Alopecia which is sudden patchy hair loss because, for some medically unknown reason, my antibodies are attacking my hair follicles. So yes, my head looks like a globe right now and it's not really amusing. I love my hair, and now I cannot control my hair. It's not really a huge issue; I couldn't care less about how I look; well I do, especially if I start losing my eyebrows and my mustache, but right now I believe I am handling it adequately. Also, the steroid injections I take to treat it (no progress so far) are painful. But I mean I'm glad it's just Alopecia and not something more serious.

Now that the medical update and pity inducing paragraph is done, I should yet write about something else. What else? Yes, my semester this year was and still is sponsored by the late Yousef Al-Mi6ref. Such an amazing musician that guy was. The sadness in almost all of his songs is truly saddening.

There was a brief beautiful distraction this semester, as well.
"في عيونه سحر يفتك بالرجال، والحلا بالشعر الأسود لانتفش."

Anyhow, I should go to sleep now. Let me tell my future self that this was a nice semester. Nothing really special. To two more years, yes? Yes, if I do well.

Love. 

Environmental Protection 102

It's such a hard phase when I lose my independence. I lost my freedom. No chains or cuffs were involved, but the entrance of a new experience that became a temporary constant before willfully exiting. I may have been breathing smoggy air for the last five or six years and I eventually became used to it, despite many objections and appeals for an alternative situation. But then, a breath of fresh air descended into my existence and elevated me to a heavenly state. Genuine smiles became my norm; I resumed the need to duly impress and keep close this fascinating change. Only for the fresh air to lose interest in my smoke-filled lungs, mark its withdrawal and become an estranged sensation once more.

And now, I'm suffocating.

I've survived smog and will survive it once more. 

I Apologize Mr. Msallam Al-Barrak

Msallam Al-Barrak

Dear Mr. Al-Barrak,

I write this public letter as I'm disturbed by feelings of shame and regret. I don't know if I'm taking advantage of your name to gain more readership, or if I really do care about your situation and how much Kuwait misses your presence at this moment. I feel incapacitated as I write this; I can't help you out or sentence you to freedom, whilst you, behind bars, are paying my price and the price of many Kuwaitis who long for a free society, for democracy and popular involvement.

I cannot understand how you get on with your life in prison. The sheer disappointment you're feeling on a daily basis. I'm sure you hoped that the people won't leave you by yourself and will fight for you as you fought for them for years and years. You spoke their words and said things they never imagined themselves having the courage to say. And yet, when you got sentenced to a couple of years in prison, they abandoned you. I abandoned you.

Imagine, Mr. Al-Barrak, that my practical efforts to "free" you consist of a hashtag on Twitter every now and then, or maybe I mention you to a friend to revive the mere fact that you exist and that you should be freed. I look at Kuwait today, and the shit that it's facing every day, and miss your appearance, that appearance which would send shivers down the spines of the elements of corruption and autocracy in Kuwait. They couldn't stand your mere presence which scared them, and they sent you to prison.

And for what? You didn't kill anyone, you didn't rob a bank, you didn't embezzle money. YOU SAID THE TRUTH, and the truth hurt them.

Look Sir, I think you made many mistakes. I do not agree with many things you did. I think some petty debacles you had with your opposition allies caused many a limitation in its effectiveness. Also, I am a firm believer of collective pressure. A cause shouldn't be represented by an individual, but by effective groups presenting a singular message and representing diversity, especially in Kuwait. We are all in it together. But how can it be collective if no one wants to take responsibility and move forward like you did? How can we move forward when no one is ready for sacrifices, and you're the only one who is spending months upon months behind bars, with a smile?

And those smiles, Mr. Al-Barrak, kill me a thousand times. Yes, I know that they're a message to those who think they can break you by imprisoning you; but they're also a reminder to us, to me, that we're not doing enough. You, alone, behind bars, are more effective than the thousands of us on the outside.

Mr. Al-Barrak, you're one of a kind. You deserve to be your own entity. You deserve the limelight, and you deserve the honor of leading Kuwait into its limelight, as well. The steps are slow and hard, but I'm sure that everyday you spend in prison is a day of more determination and resolve to award the people of Kuwait with what they deserve. And you'll prevail; we will prevail with you.

I write this with the hope that we rekindle the process as soon as possible and maybe before you're out. But we're a thousand times stronger with you. We see the strength in your eyes and are able to walk the walk instead of just talking it. We see what you accomplished with very little, and are more willing to pay the price of those accomplishments with you.

To the prospect of your freedom, Mr. Al-Barrak, I write. To a prosperous Kuwait in meaningful democracy, I write. To the price you and many others are paying, I write. I write for the lost citizenships of the Al-Barghash family, the banishment of Sa'ad Al-Ajmi, the imprisonment of Ayyad Al-Harbi, Abdullah Fairuz, and to the many others being politically targeted in Kuwait.

I also write to appease myself with the petty satisfaction of doing something more than a lost, quickly forgotten hashtag on Twitter. I write because I feel helpless and sad. I write you because I genuinely miss your presence on the forefront of Kuwait's reformation. Kuwait misses you. And as I reread this to check for mistakes and typos, I realize that it really sounds like a letter from a naive teenager but I don't care. You deserve more than a letter. You deserve to be free and one day, you will be free, because your freedom is a step in Kuwait's own path to freedom.

Yours sincerely,
A self-labelled Average Kuwaiti

A Cause For Celebration?

Writing about you is a hard job. As you enter into the month of your anniversary and be celebrated by the your loving masses I find myself wanting to celebrate you too. Unfortunately, there is nothing to celebrate.

You're ragged, rigid, spiteful, traditional, backwards, almost insane and with no look ahead whatsoever. You lost that bright twinkle in your eyes and that mesmerizing smile which brought many to a halt of admiration. Your ability to reach the unexpected turned into expected shortcomings. You suddenly seem to have no potential whatsoever and people are repelled by your aura of stagnation. Is this really you?

You're not the same anymore. You're a shadow of what you used to be; a vibrant entity of love and acceptance encompassing all others around you and sharing everything you owned with everybody. You were in the care of caring people who understood what you needed and needed what you offered. A reciprocal relationship which illuminated with magnificence. You used to surpass expectations, fulfilled unmatched potentials. You were a space for peace.

You once allowed people to talk to you and about you with no fear of the prospect of your anger. You accepted criticism and built upon those true and honest words. You did not care about what those peers around you thought, you only cared about those who were within you. And with that, prosperity engulfed you. Excellence was common and leadership became a natural result thereof. You proved everyone wrong by establishing a system unheard of around you. Your servants became the people who dictated your future and fulfilled your ambitions. They gathered under a ceiling named after a true lover of yours and sought your satisfaction. And you gave back. You loved each and every person connected with you.

And you were envied, for a close friend stabbed you in the the back and turned into foe. Evil violated you, attempting to reverse the excellence you accumulated. Yet your people refused to submit to that mysterious force of vile, and marched peacefully in protest of the ugly gown you were forced to wear. They stood hand in hand and worked to resist that unusual force with means they were not used to. And again, you proved to be different and validated all fairy tales; good defeats evil. Your plight motivated the world and they fought for you. You survived.

The new mission was apparent and those who loved you and wanted you did not fail you. You were reclothed with that same cloth of excellence. You regained your step and returned to what you once were.

But you changed. You became too confident, too cocky. And although your kindness did not completely change, you suddenly became moody and indifferent. You began to hit the hands of those who were trying to care for you and rewarded those who disrespected you. You lost a diamond here and a ruby there but you never did anything. You knew that it wasn't your carelessness which caused those losses but an organized attempt by those who took advantage of your gullible nature. And with that you lost care as you lost one of your recent lovers and another came into the picture. Those who cared for you began to lose interest yet happily accepted what little you had to offer.

Your peers now excelled and you sat down doing absolutely nothing of value. That vibrant energy subtly turned into a stagnant lack of mobility and care. And people within you started to voice their concern. They couldn't stand seeing you dive into a destructive wilderness. But your new lover's thoughts contradicted those who criticized your new path. Your lover did not believe in your values.

And now, you're something different. You're lost in that wilderness with no apparent way out as you exclude those who really care about you and bring in those who care only about their personal wellbeing. Instead of solidifying your beauty and enriching what you have to offer, your new lover is now caring about how to keep his status as your lover. The praise which you enjoy is sourced out of fear or false pretenses, and for the first time, your lover is enjoying all of the fake praise. That true independence is not so true anymore.

You're not you anymore.

Yet, there is always that hope that you'll regain your senses and allow the genuine caretakers to once again take care of you and clothe you with true love. They're trying as hard as they can right now, even as you shun them, and your arm entangles a stubborn lover's arm. You taught us that despite all of the lovers and all of the enemies you face over the years, you are the one which remains and they die off.

Dearest, I'll celebrate your past, and hope for your future. I'll bet on us and the strength of time to change you. Please pardon me for despising your current lover but know that I'll always love you and your people.


"You're your people's journey into daylight.
You're your people's smile of destiny."

To The Years

To the Decembers of sorrow and longing I raise a glass. They are such weird months, arriving each year with the remnants of another autumn - wind, lost leaves, yet more chills. And each year, they set the scene for another look back at the passage of time and lost emotions, unrivaled failures and miniature triumphs. They provide the background for more unanswered questions: What have you done so far? What more can you do? Are you happy? Are you sad? Where is the love? 

I never imagined myself to be here five Decembers ago. And here, here, is not a geographic location nor is it a stop on the timeline of my life. Here is a state of mind! Where I envisioned myself to be was a completely different state, or maybe I did not really have any expectations, but I certainly did not want to be here. In a state of lacking. 

This childlike behavior seems not to be able to escape my mindset. Why the constant exposure of clichéd writings that really do nothing but heighten one's unapparent sorrows? Passages that I'll read again with the passage of time and regret their presence under my name. At a point in time, these were acceptable, and actually a sign of maturity and foresight, and maybe even depth of character. But today, how can they be reconciled with the seemingly real-life experiences of the past five years? They cannot be reconciled because nothing really changed. The core feelings that I once felt fluttering in my stomach, injecting me with adrenaline are still here, and yes, they may have faded a little, but they're still strong enough to enlighten a dream and darken a day. They can still let people catch me in a teenaged daydream, or force me to think of the what ifs before I sleep, formulating a scenario after another, either inviting a lonely, unseen smile or instigating a tear. 

Of course, this December is a little bit different than all other Decembers, as this one has a defining character to it. It couples its all too familiar triggers of Decembers past, with the stress of law exams. But then again, I am thankful - no idea to whom, but I am - and content. For maybe by next December a difference is achieved. I do not expect anything better, but only the onset of something different. One always desires what one cannot have, and I desire the near impossible. 

This December arrived with yet more ambiguity and a little bit of surety. I'm only sure that the other is still as beautiful as ever, and my love yielded nothing whatsoever. I'm sure that it's time to move on from this state of mind into another with confidence and greater aspirations. But everything is still ambiguous and hard to accept. The lack of affirmative knowledge continues to pierce my efforts for a better expectation. Nobody can be better. Nobody can even be the same; they can only be different, and this is what I think I'm striving for. 

To the years of my past and identical self I cherish a memory of sheer happiness. A memory that happened on a chilly December night, under the stars. A memory which I once hoped to erase because it set a true benchmark of bliss that I do not think I will ever reach in my life. But now, knowing the futility of my hopes, I'll cherish it and remember it, and smile with it, and aspire to get as close to its effect as possible. 

Law School Finals

This blog experienced it all. My upper department mentality at the British School of Kuwait, my initial reluctance when accepted to study Civil Engineering at Kansas State University, my escapades as a graduate, and six years since its inception, it's witnessing a new academic adventure, my first semester law school exams.

And let me tell this blog the ugliness of my current undertaking.

I'm supposed to be preparing for my law school finals, but instead I'm taking time out of whatever sanity and alertness left in my brain to type this post. And I write this just to remind my grown-up self that this blog post is a bad investment of time.

Okay. So I know law. A semester's worth of it, at the very least, or at least, I think I know a semester's worth of the law. And yes, we, the elitist society of law student call the law, The Law.

Frankly, I do not know where this journey is going to take me. I may just flunk this semester's exams and just be content with my purportedly esteemed engineering degree and stay in Kuwait. But the weird thing, although not apparent in the practice exams I am taking, is that I know my shit, and I absolutely love the law.

So far I forged beautiful friendships with people I absolutely wouldn't have imagined myself befriending previously, and the care and love they show me is overwhelming.

Anyhow, I should get back to studying or to sleep. I just needed five minutes to clear my thoughts and write up something to either sorely or happily, or maybe contently remember.

*Excuse the apparent grammatical mistakes. Today, I give no damn whatsoever. 

There Was Once

There was once a group of people 

Under one ceiling

In union.

A union of abstinence, a religious duty

Fasting in a hot afternoon.

There was once a group of worshippers

Under one ceiling 

In union. 

A union of actions, of whispered words 

Whispered words of reverence 

And glory, glory to one God.

There was once a group of individuals

Under one ceiling

In union. 

A union of stances, reciting verses of devotion

Devotion to a lord almighty. 

There was once a group of humans

Under one ceiling

In union.

A union of prostration, expressions of humility

And gratitude

And love. 

.

.

.

There was once one lone coward

Under a veil

In solitude

Wearing destruction and hate.

There was once a monster

Under a veil

A veil of fake religious beliefs 

In an attire of abhorrence and terror.

.

.

.

There was once an attack

Under a dome of peace

In cowardice. 

From behind, sending to the heavens the peaceful

Injuring the unsuspecting

Shocking a community.

.

.

.

 There is now a country

Under one sky, on one pure land

In grief.

Exemplifying the art of giving

Honoring its martyrs, caring for its injured, 

Loving its people. 

There is now Kuwait

A haven of differences

In union

A union of tolerance and acceptance

An undivided home.

And it will always be. 

Audacity

Where did the audacity go?
I miss you. I want you. I need you. To the churns of an Arabic Oud I divulge my feelings.
The yearn to burst into tears is audacious. What do I need?
What's there to miss and need and want?
People lose their loved ones easily, and for what? A wrong turn? A stupid teenager in a fancy car? The random behavior of a body unhappy of one's dietary cravings? And here I am mourning my own happiness, my contentedness.

And it's not really specificity which I need. There isn't a particular being owning the keys to my smiles and true laughs. But on the contrary; it's a random grin that pours love into my unbelieving soul, and then it subsides and everything is back to normal. The sickening type of normality.

I lost the ability to express. I have many things to say and limited abilities of expression. It's like everything is another language, and I can't understand it nor does it understand me. I have a knack for rhetorical questions. I can't stand it.

I over-appreciate beauty. I'd love to think that I don't, but I certainly do. I expect a lot from a beautiful person. I expect their goodness to be of the same level as their beauty.

Days go by without anything of value really. Nothing to consolidate anything. Just the movement of time uncaring of whatever that goes on in life, and it's really not fun.

Complaints following complaints following complaints summing up the attitude of this writer. A highly-regarded personality among many, and a lowly character in the senses of his typing fingers.

Put that fragile little abhorrent manifestation
Of a cylinder between your lips, 
And carry that filled up canister, 
Strike your thumb once, 
Or twice.
Make sure of your success
Hear the hiss of chemistry at its finest,
Breathe in. Breathe in more, 
And stir up a true smile,
True fucking laughter.

I guess that's my way of trying to be audacious. 

The Absence of Quality

I despise the absence of quality. The recurrence of similar episodes. The previous idea awaiting a paraphrase, and that's it. Nothing to come out of it but a statement of presence and maybe the feigned satisfaction of imaginary accomplishment. And maybe, just maybe, what is done is hailed as evolutionary, revolutionary, innovative and whatnot, but it's just a fucking paraphrase.

I love myself. I admire what I'm doing. I think that I'm better than a lot of people, and I acknowledge that I have no right to such whatsoever, but I actually do. I take the smallest of accomplishments, the minutest overcoming of hardship, and magnify it in my head as a landmark of many sorts. Again, I have no right. I'm kidding myself.

I do not recognize my shortcomings. A blatant failure, to me, is automatically translated into a courageous escapade into the impossible and the impossible just caught up. Simple as that.

I'm not complimenting myself.

There are a lot of "I"s in this piece.

There is no ending to this piece. It will be left hanging. It's the same as the rest. A recurrence of similar episodes, lacking quality and a para-phrasal of previous ideas.

I'm tormented by the thought of abrupt ends. He's absent, and that's just excruciating, or an excuse to do whatever I want. The relativity of morality. Haha, haha. Or maybe I should be grateful for the law of mankind.

I want to write. And yet it's just a statement of presence which results in a feigned satisfaction of this imaginary accomplishment. Yes, I accomplish random writing vomits, and I am actually proud, for maybe this, one day, may be called evolutionary or revolutionary or even innovative prose. For are there worthy synonyms to Him but the creators of poems, the litterateurs of universe?

"I loved a pretty one, 

O how I desire to be his shadow."

Fuck domestic, societal, communal, traditional pressure. 

Fuck being realistic.

Fuck being oblivious to destruction.

Yes, sit in your Dewania, play a useless card game and do nothing whatsoever in your life except the action of inserting sustenance into your body keeping you alive for another day of uselessness. Fuck your inaction. 

Yes, be a factor of the damning pressures of society, but do nothing to actually better it. 

Yes, sit comfortable and complain, like I'm doing right here. Be a peach. A rotten apple. 

Let them clothe you, feed you, bury you. Let them move you right and left and stay as the puppet that you are. 

Okay. I think I went overboard. This took too long, and I thought of many things throughout. And quality is certainly an absentee. 

To The Lack Thereof

Fuck. Point, blank.
Sequential syllables are an abhorrent reality. You're an abhorrent existence. You have no sense of anything. You're a flood of needless emotions, a symbolic figure in need. And what does one need but A warm cushion?

"But there isn't a coast of limits. Two birds alike absorbing our tweets of pleasure."

To hell with routine and alarms. Days lacking a sense of meaning.

"Give me undue promises. Do not come. For a hug in trance is enough." I swear to God enough.

For life goes on, and your words linger, your smiles sting with blessed memories. Who knew that good times can be so hurtful?

Please do arrive in a vivid dream. Flood me with your vanishing existence. Come and want me, for I want you, and dare I say need you. I'm calling. I really am.

And where is patience? Where is the dullness of years I was promised. Time doesn't heal. People don't heal. You left too large of a space.

The lack of indignation. The lack thereof, of you, fuckin' you.

*Inspired by Khaled الشيخ!

اقتراح بقانون في شأن تنظيم اتحادات الطلبة - LOL

أثيرت في الآونة الأخيرة من قبل المجاميع الطلابية داخل وخارج الكويت ضجة سببها موافقة اللجنة التشريعية على الإقتراح بقانون في تنظيم اتحادات الطلبة، وجاورت هذه الضجة بيانات استنكار واستهجان واجتماع طلابي تنظيمي غير مسبوق في السنين السابقة رافضة للقانون المزمع اعتماده في مجلس الأمة الحالي. وكوني قد تخرجت مؤخرا، فوجدت من الضروري الدخول في تفاصيل هذا القانون للذين أمضوا سنينا طويلة خارج المقاعد الدراسية والذين ليس لديهم الماما كاملا بطبيعة العمل الطلابي، وهنا أنا لا أسقط على نفسي المعرفة الشاملة بهموم الطلبة لكنني أكتب من تجربة دراسية، وفهمي البسيط لبنود القانون من وجهة نظر طالب سابق، لا أكثر. 

وكمعلومات أولية، فهذا القانون قد قدمه خمسة نواب وهم: نبيل الفضل، يوسف الزلزلة، عبدالله الطريجي، عبدالله معيوف وخليل عبدالله، وقد نشرت جريدة أجيال نص الإقتراح في يوم ٢٤\١١\٢٠١٤

في بادئ الأمر، يجب التنويه بأن هذه الضجة المؤخرة ليست الأولى، فسبقتها مثيلتها عند تقديم الإقتراح، وقد شهدتها شخصيا في قاعة المؤتمرات بفندق في سان فرانسيسكو، عند سؤال أحد الطلبة أحد النواب عنه، وسأذكر تفاصيل ما حدث لاحقا.

ولآخذ كل مادة وأحلل فهمي لها وأثرها على العمل النقابي الطلابي الكويتي. 

ففي المادتين الثانية والثالثة، نجدها تحظر وجود فروع واتحادات خاصة خارج الكويت. أي أن الطلبة في أمريكا، وبريطانيا، وأستراليا، وكندا، والأردن والإمارات، ومصر وباقي الدول، لن يملكوا ممثلا شرعيا لهم، ولن يكون هنالك من يمثل مطالبهم وشكاويهم أمام الجهات الحكومية والأهلية المعنية بالكويت. وهذا الشيء لا يدخل العقل في ظل توهج الحركات الطلابية خارج الكويت، والإنجازات التي تحصدها الإتحادات بشهادة الحكومة، كسفير الكويت في الولايات المتحدة وغيره. وفي تجربتي الدراسية في أمريكا، وجدت قوة وفاعلية الإتحاد الوطني لطلبة الكويت فرع الولايات المتحدة، فهو ينظم الأنشطة الإجتماعية، والثقافية، ليجمع الطلبة المغتربين، خصوصا المؤتمر السنوي الذي أصبح وجهة لأكثر من ٣٠٠٠ طالب وطالبة، دون التطرق للدعم الكثير الذي يحصده من القطاع الخاص الكويتي، ليكون منارة العمل الطلابي أمام جميع الجنسيات الدراسية المغتربة في أمريكا، من أكبرها لأصغرها حجما وكما. وهو الممثل الذي يتدخل في حالات الطوارئ، وينسق ما بين الطلبة والملاحق الثقافية والسفارة الكويتية، ويمد يد العون للجميع دون استثناء. وكيف لا أستذكر العرس الديمقراطي الحقيقي الذي يحصل بانتخابات اتحاد أمريكا، وهو التنافس الشريف بين قوائم تمثل أفكار ورؤى وطنية، تعمل من أجل الطالب وتسابق بعضها البعض للظفر بشرف تمثيله، بتنظيم غير مشهود وجهود تطوعية وطنية مشكورة. وهذا كله قد ينسحب على العديد من طلاب الدول الأخرى. وهنا، لا أنكر وجود بعض الشوائب في العمل النقابي الطلابي، ولكن الممارسات الخاطئة تُقوَم بالممارسة الصحيحة والتوعية، واتاحة المجال لتصحيح المسار، لا بالتضييق كما هو وارد في هذا القانون. 

وفي المادتين الرابعة والخامسة، نجد بأن المشرع يحدد أغراض الإتحاد واختصاصاته، بغياب تام عن مشاكل الطالب وهمومه، ونوع من أنواع الوصاية على تصرفات اتحاده الذي يمثله، وكأن الطالب لا يستطيع تحديد أغراضه الخاصة واختصاصات اتحاده. هم أعضاء من مجلس الأمة من اقترحوا هذا القانون، ولا أعتقد بأنهم استشاروا أية جهة طلابية عند كتابتهم لهذا القانون، اذ لا يلامس القانون الواقع الطلابي الذي نعيشه في الكويت اليوم، فالحرية التي يعيشها الطالب اليوم، والحقوق التي كفلها الدستور له في وقتنا الحالي أنتج عزوفا واقعيا لشريحة كبيرة من الطلاب عن العمل النقابي، ولكن لي أن أتخيل الناتج الذي سيُخلق عند كبت الطالب بعد صدور قانون مثل هذا، وكأنهم يريدون استفزاز الطالب، ولنا بالتجاوب الطلابي الموحد في الأيام القليلة الماضية مثالا لما أعنيه. الطالب الذين لا يعتقدون أعضاء مجلس الأمة أنه قادر على ادارة نفسه كان وسيكون عاملا أساسيا في تغيير الكثير في هذا البلد. 

وفي المادة الثامنة، الطامة الكبرى، والتي تنص حرفيا، "يحظر على اتحاد الطلبة التدخل في السياسة …" وكأن اتحاد الطلبة خارج حسبة المجتمع الكويتي، وليس له دورا تاريخيا في الخلافات والأحداث السياسية التي حدثت على مر وجود الكويت، وفي تاريخنا الحديث، لا يسعني إلا وأن أستذكر دور القوائم والاتحادات بقانون حقوق المرأة السياسية، وقانون الدوائر الخمس، وغيرها من المواقف التي سطرت دور الطالب الكويتي الوطني خصوصا في الأحداث السياسية الأخيرة كمرسوم الضرورة بتغيير نظام الإنتخاب، والانتهاكات الحقوقية والدستورية التي عصفت بالكويت. وهنا أسترجع الموقف المضحك الذي شهدته في مؤتمر اتحاد أمريكا في سان فرانسيسكو. ها هنا النائب الدكتور خليل عبدالله (أحد مقدمي الاقتراح) يجيب على سؤال الطالب على منبر اتحاد أمريكا، وأمام صالة مليئة بالطلبة، وفي ندوة سياسية تضم عددا من الشخصيات السياسية، والدكتور يروج لقانونه، ويتعالى صوته، مستجديا الهتاف أمام جمهورا واعيا من الطلبة من المتوقع أن عدده قد فاق كل من حضر جلسات مجلس الأمة الأخير كلها، وأتمنى من الإتحاد الوطني أن يعرض الندوة لكي يرى الناس ما موقع عضو مجلس الأمة الحالي أمام هامة وطنية كمشاري العصيمي، الحاضر بنفس الندوة والجمهور. وأعتقد أن الدكتور خليل عبدالله قد غاب عن باله وعي الطلبة، ونسي أنه لولا نشاط اتحادات الطلبة السياسي لما كان في هذه الندوة، فكيف يجرمها بقانونه؟ (قانونه يجزي الاتحاد المتدخل بالسياسة بعقوبة قد تصل إلى ٥ سنوات بالمادة ٣٥).  

ويتجلى غياب الوعي بمقترحي القانون  في المواد ١٢ و١٩ و٢٠ من القانون، واللاتي حددت سن مؤسس وعضو مجلس ادارة الاتحاد بما لا يقل عن ٢١ وسنة، وهنا أقيسها على نفسي، فأنا ولله الحمد تخرجت من الجامعة بعمر ال٢٠ سنة، والذي يعني أنني في كل مسيرتي الدراسية لا أستطيع أن أكون عضوا في مجلس ادارة الاتحاد. وفي المادة ال٢٠، حددت مدة مجلس الإدارة بمدة ٣ سنوات، فهي تتوقع من الطلبة الأعضاء أن يتأخروا بدراستهم حتى سن ال٢٤ سنة لإكمال المدة، على سبيل المثال. هل خفي عنهم أن الطالب يدخل الجامعة بعمر ال١٨ عادة؟ وتستمر المهزلة في تحديد الصوت الواحد في الإنتخابات، وكأن "الحدث الإستثنائي" الذي حصل لإنتخابات مجلس الأمة يحب أن ينقاس ويطبق على كل حدث ديمقراطي في الكويت من جمعيات تعاونية ونفع عام ونوادي رياضية وقد نراها بانتخابات مجالس المدارس ومدراء المحادثات الجماعية في الواتسآب، ولا أعتقد أن هذا الجزم على نظام الصوت الواحد هو نتاج نجاح العملية الإنتخابية بل هو اثبات موقف سلطوي كأنه عناد الطفل الذي يريد أن يفرض قوانين لعبته على كل أطفال الفريج. لم ألتق بأي شخص لديه فهم بسيط بالمفاهيم الديمقراطية الخاصة بالإنتخابات لا يقول بأن نظام القوائم والتصويت لمجموعة فكرية هو السبيل للديمقراطية الحقيقية، ولكننا نرى أناس يريدوننا أن نكفر بالديمقراطية والعملية الإنتخابية بإطار دستوري مشوه. 

وفي المواد ١٣ و٢٣ و٢٧ و٣٠ و٣١ تتبين آلية التقييد والجهة المقيدة، فالنقابة أو الإتحاد الطلابي تتولى هموم الطلبة عند الجهات التعليمية المختصة، وفي الكثير من الأحيان تكون المخاصمة ضد قرارات وزارة التعليم العالي، ولكن في المواد السالفة الوزارة هي المتحكم بكل شيء. فهي من تملك تنظيم الإنتخابات واصدار تراخيص التأسيس، والحرمان من التأسيس، والإعتراض أو وقف ما جاء بمحاضر اجتماعات مجلس إدارة الإتحاد، وحل مجلس الإدارة و سحب الترخيص، بقرارات غير قابلة للطعن أمام القضاء. فبمزاجية الوزير أو المسؤول تسلب ارادة الطلاب، بلا محاسبة ولا حق رد الإعتبار، لتصبح الحركة الطلابية مُسيرة. 

بهذا القانون سبعة وثلاثين مادة، معظمها تمثل سبة بوجه الحركة الطلابية النيرة، ولذلك رأينا الجهود تتظافر من الكثير القوائم والإتحادات بمختلف توجهاتها الفكرية ومؤسساتها العلمية معارضة هذا التقييد والإسفاف بمقدرة الطلبة ودورهم التاريخي بالكويت وخارجها. ومن هنا، أرجو أن تنجح الجهود هذه بايقاف ونسف هذا القانون. وأنا لست ضد تنظيم العملية النقابية الطلابية، فيجب اقرار قانونا ينظمها ولكن بالمزيد من الحريات والثقة التي يستحقها الطالب في مؤسسات التعليم العالي. 

لتتبارك الجهود الطلابية المبذولة حاليا، وليتم التنسيق الفعال والمؤثر بين كافة الجهات المعنية المتضررة لصد القانون، ولنلتم جميعا خلف الطلبة والطالبات لتحقيق مطالبهم المستحقة أمام مؤسسات كنت أعتقد في يوم من الأيام أنها الحصن المنيع أمام انتهاك الحريات، ولكنها تحالفت لتضييق ما تبقى للكويت من نفحات عام ٦٢. 

*لست قانونيا، فقد يكون أنني أسأت فهم المواد سالفة الذكر وحيثياتها، لكنني كتبت عن فهمي الشخصي للمواد.

A Memoir of an Unemployed Kuwaiti

Hello, my name is Ali Boshehri and I’m an unemployed Kuwaiti in Kuwait. I like the term unemployed as it, I believe, defines me perfectly in a country filled with ambiguous nicknames and acronyms. At a corner there is a fashionista/o, at another there is a professional photographer, and at another there is a cupcake specialist; all of which trying to fill a void of creativity established systematically by Kuwait.

I’m not here to say that I am the most creative, innovative or driven person in Kuwait nor am I indicating that my situation is an individual result of the tumultuous system of this place, but on the contrary, I am trying to highlight, through this, the hardships that youth, like me, are going through when they successfully complete their degree requirements and receive their diplomas.

Advice, here and there, from almost everybody, following the question that is always asked: “Did you get a job? What are you applying to?” The most excruciating of such questions is: “Who is your Wasta?” It is as if it is impossible to gain a good working place, matching one’s ambitions, without such personality of influence to ease the path, uncaring of the missed opportunities of others in the way that may be more qualified for such a position.

I am one of many. Many who are average Kuwaitis with good degrees, arriving from advanced societies like the United States or the United Kingdom, with high hopes of change, and great desire to conquer the system and fight for the principle of proven abilities and high potential. And then, to be stunned by those innocent questions, the unorganized government authorities/agencies around the country, or, to the politically aware, the statement of the Prime Minister about the corruption and bribe-ridden government, a Prime Minister whom is the bearer of a mere elementary school degree.

Many of my like have been unemployed for months and maybe years, compared to my humble two weeks of unemployment. I, on the other hand, may gain employment in the next week, or month, depending on the current market for Civil Engineers. But what is unemployment in Kuwait, the country of wonders? Getting a job in Kuwait doesn’t ensure employment. I can register in a company of a relative and get the governmental allowance of 750 KWD (an encouragement to Kuwaitis to work in the private sector) whilst staying in bed all morning. I can also get quick employment at a ministry and go to work every morning, only to drink tea and read the newspaper or surf Twitter. Why is the lack of effective productivity in Kuwait a surprise? Why are we stunned by the disproportionate number of expats, of different nationalities, in Kuwait if compared to the number of nationals? They do all the work and we, the Kuwaitis, sit in our luxurious desks and beautiful cars, all the while, paying the hidden tax of luxury.

I am not here to blame the Kuwaiti for the lack of productivity, because I truly know that if I was to be employed in, for example, a ministry, and try to work as hard as I can, and then to see that my work is gone unnoticed, if not, in some cases, punished, I will be like the mainstream way of living the work life, because that’s how people work. Our way of life is the direct result of a failed system, and we are only to blame for not doing anything about it, for being neutral and happy with our short-term pleasures.

The macro magnitude of the problem of unemployment in Kuwait is loud to deafening proportions, but nobody is listening or even believing. By 2020, which is in five years, we’re hitting a 157,000 wall of unemployed individuals, if the current employment system persists. In 15 years, this number is to increase to 410,000. The latter number is the number of the current Kuwaiti workforce, in its entirety, both in the public and private sector.[1] This time, last year, Kuwait had about 17,000 unemployed individuals of 2-year and 4-year degrees. And just to be clear, an unemployed individual is a person whom, in the last four weeks, has actively been seeking a job.

Anyhow, I’m bored. To the potential employers out there, consider this to be a job application. What would you want more in a Kuwaiti employee? Here I am exercising my short unemployment in average, and I’d say productive writing in a café next to a mosque in the middle of a roundabout. And that is, if and only if, the firms in the UAE or Qatar do not offer me better jobs.

And finally, coinciding with the current celebrations, I’ll put forth the famous supplication, “May Kuwait never change.”

---

[1] Altaleea.com/?p=10302

Thank You For F***ing Up

I regularly refrain from writing posts that aren't in the same mood as most of what is written in this blog, but today and tomorrow are different days. They're days that mark significant occasions and happenings which need a moment to be reflected upon and written about.

I do not mean to put such a writing at a higher value than anything and/or anybody. I just mean to write.

This morning, as I was camped in my Hartfordian apartment after the infamous East Coast blizzard, Hezbollah made a strategic assault against Zionist Military targets within occupied Lebanon. This event brought joy to my heart as I was heartened by the liveliness of the Opposition against the Zionist Entity in Occupied Palestine, Lebanon and Syria. Such joy shouldn't overshadow my own opposition to the presence of Hezbollah on Syrian grounds, if by any chance Syrian civilians are affected.

It's just that any assault to Zionist enterprises is, to me, a valid, legitimate effort in the march against Zionist aggression in Arabian territories.

Overlapping this event was the Kuwaiti delegation's turn at the Human Rights Council to answer to the 21st Universal Periodic Review. It's a means to review the Human Rights situation by the international community in each of the United Nations member states. The review, to say the least, was quite frustrating. Here were Kuwaiti government officials, led by a minister, heaping praise to the role of Kuwait in Human Rights and creating this angelic picture of a country where everyone is happy and no violations occur. "Children are in schools," whereas in reality, at least 600 children are without education whatsoever, and "there are no freedom of speech violations," whereas it is almost unheard of in Kuwait for a day to go by without a popular hashtag being created demanding the freedom of a Twitter user, amongst many other governmental allegations, which can be easily refuted.

Oh, and I almost forgot, a Kuwaiti official stated to the international community that the illegal aliens community in Kuwait, according to her, and better known, the Stateless (Bedoons), are better treated by Kuwait than any other country. Her evidence probably didn't include pictures of children selling roses at traffic lights and watermelons at roundabouts in broad daylight, instead of probably being in school.

Countries with respectable human rights records quickly came to refute such statements and asking for much more work in Kuwait, thanks greatly to the shadow reports presented by the Kuwaiti civil society. I only remember Saudi Arabia and Swaziland praising the human rights efforts in Kuwait. Surprise surprise.

One would think that maybe Kuwait would want to portray some sort of respect to what it says, at least until the review ends, but no. Kuwait continues to become a human rights joke by kidnapping a famous Twitter user from his house, at night, for stating an opinion. (No one really knows his location nor the alleged indictment until now).

Mohammad Al-Ajmy, better known as Bu 3asam, is held in forcible custody without being granted any rightful insurances which he should enjoy per the Kuwaiti constitution and THE UNIVERSAL DECLARATION OF HUMAN RIGHTS. Yes, the same declaration that falls under the Human Rights Council, the same declaration which Kuwait was trying to prove its adherence to just hours earlier.

Al-Ajmy, a member of the National Committee for Monitoring Violations, is under arrest for stating an opinion. The same thing I'm doing right this moment and the same thing Kuwaitis were, for the last 50+ years, doing without fearing arrest or retaliation by government forces. Al-Ajmy, a person I don't even follow on Twitter and a member of a tribe for which I have no connection to whatsoever. Al-Ajmy, a person whom I personally saw in a humble gathering protesting the arrest of other political detainees and was joyfully recounting accounts of his other escapades with police forces. Al-Ajmy, a person I'm sure won't be effected by the scare tactics of our police forces is a blatant example of the lack of certain human rights standards in Kuwait and the multiple violations of the police and the government.

What makes Al-Ajmy special to me, personally, is the principles he held and continues to hold. He is the embodiment of what I see as a perfect Kuwaiti who suffers for the cause of opposing the government without ever changing stances or settling for compromises. And many others are suffering as well in Kuwaiti prisons as the Kuwaiti delegation enjoys the weather of Geneva and cites lie after lie in a whimsical propagandist effort.

To whom it may concern, 
WE HAVE HUMAN RIGHTS VIOLATIONS. Kuwait is not angelic in any way possible. Our constitution, which offers minimum human rights standards, is not even being minutely implemented. We, as Kuwaitis, are heading into a new era. An era of fear and political crackdowns. An era where the country fails in all development fronts yet excels in the tactics of breaking up demonstrations and how to raid houses and arrest political targets. 

And this is amongst many many other failures and violations. 

Yours,
Ali

And finally, tomorrow marks a very interesting day in recent history. A day I won't celebrate. One of my favorite books "Thank You For Smoking" was released as a movie :(. It should've been named "Thank You For Fucking Up!"

#FreeBu3asam!

And It Starts

A new city, a new way of life, a new year. A new everything. 

The desperation seen on his eyes was obvious. The puffed, darkened bubbles of skin underneath fainting the emergence of the wrinkles bordering them. He hadn't slept for a while. He wanted to know the answer but nothing is to be let on. He had no way of knowing anything for certain.

The setting wasn't set for such a sad appearance. He was in the best of dishdashas, dashing out Armani cufflinks on a stylish light blue shirt contrasting the navy blue of his attire. An ironed chma'3 shaping to a perfect nasfa. Winter was always his fashionable season.

The years of play were to be forgotten, but how is he to convince an angelic woman of his repentance? She was the embodiment of everything he had no taste for a few months ago, but. There is always a but.

But she now owned him and her decision was the defining point of the newly acquired start, the clean slate he is to build everything on top, everything pure and magnificent. The yes or no are which would elate or devastate him.

Till the day this doesn't become new, I'll stop. 

To A New Chapter

Well, what can I say? I wrote a blog post more than four years ago declaring my intent to head to the U.S. and study Civil Engineering. The thought back then was exciting and scary. I was leaving Kuwait at 16 years old, studying something I have no interest for ad beginning a new chapter of my life.

Four years on, and here I am. A graduate. A civil engineer. But then again, here I am, excited and scared, unbeknown to me what's upcoming in my future endeavors. Lost.

I am thankful. I am grateful for the last four years of friendships, experiences and adventures. Low times and high times. Fun mixed with intellect. New beliefs, ideologies, approaches towards life and excellent education. I know more about myself more than anytime before. I understand the way I think and behave, and I've got a good grip of how I deal with things. I know what I can do and what I can't. I think I know my worth and the person I am going to be 50 years on.

It was a positive experience, for sure. But. There is always a but. But, I have no idea. I know myself but I don't really know what I want. I want more. I didn't suffice my desire for more. I'm not that bored of this life. I'm not fully satisfied. I do not want to leap that leap, from irresponsibility to adulthood. I'm still a youngster who needs more guidance and help, more intellect to make me surer and of greater value to myself and my close circle.

And I still lack that one thing. Love. That elated entity which I cherish with no avail. I have not that.

Now, reality. I'm a civil engineer, who hates civil engineering. Well, it's not complete hate. There is some love towards the profession, but it certainly doesn't define me. I won't allow it to define me. I'm an engineer, yes, but I'm a shitty one with no passion for it whatsoever. Yes, I do know about concrete columns and steel beams. I know about secondary treatment in a wastewater treatment facility, or the elements of the cross-section of masonry wall. There are also good soils and bad soils to be built upon. But, I have no interest whatsoever.

And this place. America. What a country! The people, the places, but I still didn't use it up. I want more. Whether here, or somewhere else. I have potential. I can do better, much better.

I still have three more exams and three more reports to do and submit before I'm officially done. The graduation was merely ceremonial, but it's all coming to an end. Suddenly. I've looked forward towards it. I think I spent most of my days in the last 2 & 1/2 years (the period which I realized that I can really do it and graduate) living my days with the intent that this time would finally arrive, and now that it did really arrive, I'm suddenly scared and wishing for more.

Let me explain this better. The fact that I can return from school, throw my bag, change into comfy PJs and crash on the couch with nothing to think about whatsoever is absolutely priceless. The friends around. The irresponsibility, the carelessness, the independence. Why would I want that to end?

I did have stressful weeks. Days which I spend more than 14 hours in the university engrossed completely in work or low times when the mood is depressing. But they were all compensated by bouts of laughter or acts of unorthodox nature. This is just to remind myself that this was a wonderful period of my life, and although I forgot many details, the goodness is to be remembered and memorized.

I went through a lot and I was carried by very loyal friends. People who spent years, literally years, to help me out and carry me out of my slump of carelessness. And I did it. I passed the finish line.

This leads to nothing, because I really have no idea what's next. Do I want to return or stay? Do I continue? Should I? What's certain is that I'll miss this, regardless of my future decision.

Thank you. Thank me.

The Calm

The obscenity of it all is never a surprise. The audaciousness is not even astonishing any more. It's a meddle not a disaster. 

Hello,
My name is Ali.

The turn to the personal helps ease. 

Hello,
My name is John and I'm trying to be eloquent.

The turn to the impersonal is impersonal and fake. 

*Resort to short sentences and an ambiguous collection of words that make no sense beyond their grammatical correctness. Their political neutrality.*

"My patience is the patience of sailors seeking pearls amid the seas."

I used to write when I used to have meaning. The lack, thereof, is a logical result to the contrary. 

Hello,
My name is AverageQ8i. I'LL DO WHAT I CAN DO. 

A Cheap Script

You: Oh my God, you're really doing this. You're actually blurting out these deviated words? Fuck off. I have nothing to say.
Me: DO NOT TURN THIS ON ME. You started this, making it a minefield of deceit and hurt. You fucking backstabbed me. You put a knife in my back and fucking twisted it. Fuck you, for God's sake, fuck you.
You: I never meant for it to go wrong. You kept zoning out and leaving me to my misery, forgetting our beautiful moments. Snubbing my kisses, my looks of lust, my looks of love. What do you expect me to do? Wait? Wait for what? Wait for the rest of my life and see you smoke your life away, drink your emotions and gamble our life-savings? Your ripped our wishlist, the things we got together to do, to-fucking-gether. You have the audacity to come here and say that I stabbed you in the back? I didn't stab shit. I held us together. Held this together. Worked my ass off to feed us and your addicted self.
Me: SHUT UP!
You: That is you when you have nothing to say. Shutting everybody up. Shutting yourself up. Go fuck yourself. We're done.
Me: We're done when I say we're done.
You: Remove your filthy hand off my arm!
Me: I won't. You're staying here. I will never allow it.
You: Look at yourself. Smell yourself. You think I respond to you anymore? I do whatever I want to do, without anybody's consent, understand me?
Me: Yes. I understand you alright. Now my job is to make you want to stay, right?
You: Don't play your games. Fuck off, I'm leaving.
Me: Well the game just started.
You: Bye.
Me: Check your phone.
You: You wouldn't.
Me: I would. Now do you want to stay?
You: Come. Let's settle this.

I'm not that much of a writer. 

I

Nights are not so enriching anymore. I'm not moved by a cool breeze, by invigorating melodies, by enchanting poetry, by fast car rides, by conversations of intellectual magnitude, by teachings of substance, by idols and symbols, by celebrated personalities. It all came to a halt at a point in the last four years. Nothing heightens my senses anymore; nothing is of any value.

Where are those thoughts of passion when a glance is shared?

A lover is confined to the brown pages of a book, between two durable covers, to be imagined and not experienced. I should understand and remember that a human isn't just bone and muscle. The theory of instinct should be obliterated, as that would shatter what a human being is all about, a person of feelings. Love, a distinct, original entity which should never be forgotten.

I'm living but living what? A life, just a minuscule part of a larger haystack. No. This shouldn't be true. I should be meaningful, to myself at the very least, locate my own true north.

I'm not myself.

But I am really not my own property. I am completed by that other person, that gal whom I rotate around, and want to be next to. This is what I tried to suppress for the last four years. To get over, but get over what? I was getting over myself and living and living a life of others, a routine instigated by self-improving morons on the Internet and the pressure of educational excellence.

I'm not a person who conforms to a regular sleeping routine, and multiple hours of Engineering books, no. I don't have a bed, and an alarm and a daily time to wake up. I don't talk to people who don't interest me on topics that don't interest just for the sake of assigned group work. No. This is completely fake.

I don't compromise and lie. I don't keep superficial relationships or be cautious whenever I meet a new person. I'm a follower of the heart, a trustworthy person carrying the secrets of many, untangling others' problems, and harming myself for their good. Their problems, papers, lovers are more important than anything that I have. This is lost. I'm not me.

AND THIS FREAKING PIECE ISN'T ME, AS WELL.

Where is the fucking composure? Prowess?

I guess I'm stuck in that snowball called adulthood. Maybe a story of success albeit nonsensical success.  

"أتبعك، ويضيع العمر، ويضيع الطريق، وخطوتي
وأدورك بخدود الزهر، بالليل، بعيون القمر
وأدورك بنبض قلبي الجديد، كل ما لمحتك بعيد، وأسأل عليك الصبر"

Trust

You don't trust me, you don't give a fuck. You need me, and when you're done eating up my flesh, you'll dump my bones to the awaiting dogs. Your conscience is a lie. A bitch is what you are. A self-centered, bigoted, unaware whore of intellectual emptiness and a facade of fake kindness.

You obliterate the ritual laws of love. You know nothing of love but a set of traditional restrictions put forth by religious sayings and old tales, and you don't even cherish those. You're cruel, challenging a Disney crone on the extents of evilness your highness can reach, and you surpass her, as you categorize the means of wrong attitudes and hurting actions.

You can stare me down, citing your lies easily. You can't even recognize truth as you build a web of fake tales, and as you're caught in your act, the high-pitch of your voice suddenly pops up, invoking the racing heartbeats of my heart and utilizing its unknowing senses. 

Fuck you, may I say. Fuck you and fuck your deceit. Fuck the imaginary image of you, and fuck the thing I started with you. A thing which I knew of its deviation and never stopped, as I got addicted to your apparent easiness, which was all part of your plan. 

Fuck my heart which succumbed. 

The above is a burst of fictional emotion. 

To

I have nothing to declare. That should be enough for a long white page.
No. I want that look of determined solace.
I would like to call myself a poet.
I don't want to lose that essence within me, that untouchable entity.
I'm losing it. I'm losing everything.

What's an unwanted self but an average person?

"مساري ماهو باختياري، لها ساري."

"Dignity of a Homeland 8"

We entered the grand mosque as the Imam started the long Taraweeh prayers. It was my first time in the mosque, and I was bewildered by the massive spaces within the mosque and the elegant designs on every inch of each wall, and the roof towering the endless blue carpet. But the atmosphere wasn't really spiritual as I sat alongside one of the columns; stares were shared by many, and audible chatter syncing with the Imam's beautiful recital of verses of the Quraan. It was nervy. A thick aura filling the air within. My shorts were quite an obvious indication that I was not there to pray, but for a completely different reason, and I felt the looks close down on me with each turn of the neck and each skeptical stare, or maybe nobody really cared. I don't know. 

Taraweeh ended, and people started to walk out. The whispers continued, and the usual relaxation after a sequence of prayers wasn't there. It was tensed. The orange shirt here and there comforted me, kind of, but I knew better than to wear such a shirt. A few familiar faces, former MPs, young activists, all of whom suddenly had the urge to pray tonight's Taraweeh prayers at the grand mosque. Groups formed as people receded to the outer spaces, anticipation clearly plastered on their eyes. Our signal to move out was the turning off of the lights. The grand mosque wasn't going to accommodate anybody, politically affiliated or religious, especially tonight. 

The outer courtyard, matching the interior grandeur of the mosque, now hosted the political crowd of the night. No more feigned spiritualties, no more readymade excuses; whoever is here, is here to protest and be part of the march. Police cars were around, but the jubilant presence of the people drowned any sense fear or reluctance. People were joyful, talking to each other freely, meeting one another after long whiles of absence. It was like a huge Dewania, where all understood why the other is here and mutual appreciation apparent on all. Salem and I talked, trying to look and sound as normal as possible. It was our first rally, and excitement mixed with minute proportions of fear were in our systems. Whenever we saw a familiar face, we talked about them, sharing Twitter experiences and thoughts about the personality. Smiles here and there. We laughed at a guy carrying a bag of 7Up cans, clearly not for drinking purposes, and others already covering their faces with surgical masks, looking quite absurd amongst the easygoing crowd. My attention was caught by a trio of females; a mother (or grandmother) presumably and her two young daughters blending in into the crowd, all in orange scarves. A confidence boost surged through me, if those girls were going to march with us in that rally, then why wouldn’t I march as well? This coincided with my brother’s constant texts asking me to return back to the car and leave the place. “It’s a trap,” he wrote, “nobody can enter from the outside premises. Everything is blocked off by the police. The people inside the perimeter are only a couple hundred. They’re going to crack hard on you guys.” I knew better than to dismiss his warnings as white lies. He has attended many previous rallies, and was exposed to the infamous tear gas, and he wanted to attend this one as well but couldn’t because the police cordoned off the square that we’re standing in right now.

“I’m not leaving. Things are okay. A lot of people are around, and there is no sign of an imminent crackdown. Don’t worry, and I’ll constantly update you.” I voice-noted in reply.

After the end of the impromptu press conference done by former members of parliament in front of the mosque, another familiar voice flared from a police car’s speakers on the other side of the courtyard. The famed Major-General Abdulfattah Al-Ali blurted out random warnings to the crowd, as nobody really cared to what he said. The now moving crowd drowned his voice, as they started their own chants demanding the release of Msallam Al-Barrak, and judicial reforms. “Ignore him,” one of the protesters distinctly shouted, stating the obvious.

The crowds now mobilized on the street, and began their rally at 10:05. The jubilance of the atmosphere stunned me and engulfed me with joy. There wasn’t any anger or despair, but a pure sense of happiness and solidarity. The fact that people were together unified by patriotic chants, casted away any sense of fear. My own reluctance to join in the chants was stricken off when, as soon as we reached the intersection between the mosque and the Kuwaiti Stock Exchange, banners of the Civil Democratic Movement emerged from the left, carried by a considerable number of activists. It was a scene out of a movie. This was a moment to grasp, and I joined in, clapping and shouting, “THE PEOPLE WANT MSALLAM AL-BARRAK!”

That moment lasted for a minute, at most.

Following the grand entrance of CDM, sound grenades were flung into the middle of the crowd, followed by tear-gas bombs. Stunning. The crowd dispersed quickly, ignoring the calls to stay put and keep unified form. The speeding entourage of the Special Forces was as grand as the crowd itself, consisting of large black and blue tanks and trucks. The action movie scene was complete now, and I needed to adjust to reality. Running was the first thing entering my mind, but I didn’t want to get lost. Again, this was my first time. I clasped Salem’s hand and held on as we ran to the Northeastern direction, towards the car park and Qased Khair. I regretted wearing Crocs.

We reached the huge car park/garden, heart pumping, recollecting our breath. The smoke was yet to reach our new location, as many others started to arrive at our place as well. I estimate that we were a hundred or so, in the big square. I was disoriented, astonished and out of breath, and I believe Salem was sharing those same qualities, but we were calm, trying to grasp the situation and find a way out of this. I kept voice-noting my brother via Whatsapp, updating him. “They hit us, but everything is well. We’re next to Qased Khair’s parking. There isn’t anything, don’t worry.”

We tried to escape through one of the corners that leads to the demonstrations but that was covered by the Special Forces anticipating us. We tried to run for the seaside, adjacent to the Seif Palace, but the Special Forces were there as well, already knowing our choices. All four corners were sealed, and that’s when we realized that we were trapped. It was humid, and the constant jogging from one area to the other took its toll on me. Some were trying to access Qased Khair for water but the coffee shop had its lights off and its door locked with the unknowing surprised costumers shayyeshing in total darkness. Although I did smell some teargas, but I wasn’t affected by it, assuming that people overreacted when exposed to it. There was a bucket of water outside of the café, and people were flushing their faces with it.

Then Salem, suddenly, left my side and introduced himself to Khaled and Saad, two notable opposition figures. His sly introduction made me smile as Salem’s family name was an apparent giveaway to his political views (many of his cousins were political detainees at one point). I followed suit and shook my hand with the two, kind of assured that they were people who knew what they’re doing, in such circumstances. We tagged along as they tried to organize the crowd and keep all in one place, preventing the random arrests that happen to individuals by undercover forces.

I then saw a relatively old woman, obviously lost and tired by the gas bombs. She wanted to leave, exclaiming, “Finish, I don’t want this! Why won’t they let us leave? I want to go home.” It became clear that the Special Forces weren’t in the business to disperse the crowds only. Their aim was collective punishment and random arrests. They wanted to inflict as much damage as possible, without letting anyone leave easily. There was no way out with such an articulate siege on our place particularly. The woman tried to enter Qased Khair, which didn’t yield whatsoever. The employees were flustered themselves. A couple, a man in a dishdasha and a woman, who probably were not part of the march, were heading towards the forces, with their hands up. We asked the woman to join them, and she did, welcomed by the couple. The man shouted, “FAMILY, FAMILY.” We observed, sensing the acknowledgement of the Special Forces, and anticipating their arrival to the awaiting troops. Nope. Three of the Special Forces aimed their guns and professionally sent, to our extreme horror; three gas bombs, which skid swiftly on the floor. One of the grenades, according to my later understanding, hit the foot of the old lady.

The bombs sent us into one of the old buildings bordering the square. This time I realized the genuine effect of the teargas as I struggled for breath and the smoke literally covered my face, skin and clothes, multiplied by the humidity. The gas infiltrated the building we entered and coughs were all I could here from the people. All were struggling. Our group then ascended to the mezzanine floor, which had inner balconies overlooking the ground floor. I didn’t understand why they were going upstairs. The smoke followed us, and naturally floated up with us. We were enclosed, surrounded and gassed.

We relaxed momentarily, giving me time to notice that we were in a building filled with closed offices and small firms. I, once again, updated my brother, providing him with whatever information I had, and an approximate location of where we were, and whom I was with (it turned out I was completely wrong with the location). Salem kept checking up on me and Saad and Khaled tried to communicate with the outside world and reassured us. A bottle of warm water circulated us with little water inside. Our urge to drown it all up was evident yet nobody dared to finish, gulping a little and passing it over. We were silent for a while, until I saw a blue and black uniform stealthily entering the building from the right, followed by another and another. It was a scene out of Call of Duty; their shields fully covering their faces and their professional entry making our building seem like a hub of terrorists. I, for the first time, was terrified. Khaled then escorted us into a corner in the floor we were in. It was a narrow room, 4x1 probably, bordered by plastic bags filled with clothes, and a green bicycle hanging on one of the walls. All of us fitted in, standing of course. We were fifteen. The guys were advising us to silence our phones and keep complete and utter silence. I was at the far end of the room. The only thing separating us from the rest of the floor was an opaque yellow sliding door, which was closed as soon as we were all inside. It was tight and sticky, and I can dare to say that air was scarce. Tear gas was yet to diminish, and hence my eyes continued to sting. We now had time to stare at each other as we listened for the various shouts coming from the lower floor, presumably of arrests and standoffs. We listened for sounds coming closer, or footsteps ascending the staircases of the building. I informed my brother of my imminent arrest and current situation, as well as my apologies for not adhering to his earlier requests. The fast pumping of my heart never ceded, and I couldn’t figure out the reason. The silence allowed for the faintest of sounds to be heard, and hence we heard a lot of footsteps and the occasional shouts. The sounds were getting closer. They were on our floor.

Salem deleted his Twitter. Others were drafting “I have been arrested” tweets whilst others kept hearing out for more clues. Khaled and Saad, calmly, mouthed and mimed instructions of surrender without resistance whatsoever. One of the guys with us was seemingly stressed at that prospect. Salem shared a smile of indignation towards me, leaving no room for words. The footsteps closed in, and Saad looked outside, anticipating the orders of the Special Forces. It was coming. We were to be arrested, now.

And then the officer simply turned around and walked to the other side of the corridor. Screams were now close by. A couple of guys were, apparently, caught in one of the bathrooms on our floor. We kept silent. Fifteen minutes then went by with nothing of note, but arduous sweat and nerve-wrecking anticipation, and the lack of air. One of the temporary tenants of the small room was an old guy called Jaber. His phone rang, regardless of any inclination to silence it. He replied with utter confidence and no sense of fear, to our astound amazement. What the fuck was he doing? He’s going to get us caught. After the phone call, he apologized, saying that he was talking to his son, and he didn’t want to seem weak or afraid to him. Many of us tensely smiled. Another fifteen minutes went by, with nothing out of the ordinary, but we still kept still. I found a piece of cardboard in one of the bags and began fanning the guys around me. They appreciated the small gesture and offered to fan me in return. It was more relaxed now. After more moments of silence, Saad carefully slid open the door, to allow air to breeze in onto us. It was a relief. One of the guys walked out and checked the floor for any police presence. There wasn’t any, but the building, according to Twitter, was still surrounded. The room now had more space, and I sat down, drenched in my sweat. It was also a chance to chat and converse about politics, our situation, and what Twitter is saying. We heard of the rally going into the old market, and the Special Forces throwing in gas grenades towards the people there as well. There were also rumors of another rally about to start in Subah Al-Nasser. The old man, Jaber, talked a bit about his past, astonishing us once again by recounting that he was a member of the police force, yet he retired years ago. The irony sure is evident. Those moments also gave me a chance to take some pictures as well as a memorable selfie with the smiling elder. But it was yet a safe place to be. An officer can simply enter and arrest us all.

After about an hour since our entrance into the room, some of the guys were asking about the possibility of leaving the room, to the warning and sensible refusals of both Saad and Khaled, the impromptu strategic and tactical leaders of our small group, unit, I’m tempted to say. Khaled was already making his phone calls to arrange a car that would pick us up from our location to another safe place. An Egyptian guard noticed us and approached us. We were quite skeptical. Saad asked him to check the building’s surroundings for any forces, and he agreed. He was also offered 10 KD, which he refused. We feared he would go and notify the forces, but in ten minutes he returned with assurances that we could leave safely, except not in a group, but individually, which was met by the group’s refusal. It’s very easy to be caught alone, without anybody knowing. One of the conversations Khaled had caught my ear. Apparently a car was brought to our location, but it wouldn’t fit all of us. Khaled adamantly refused leaving us all behind, something I find very hard to forget. Another fifteen minutes passed by, and the way out was planned and sorted. The owner of Qased Khair was a personal acquaintance of Khaled, and he suggested that we’d enter his place and act like unknowing costumers. Minutes later, the owner emerged, surprised by our hiding place and escorting us out of the building and into his coffee shop. Our dismayed appearance made for a very peculiar scene as we entered the café. The costumers astonished. In a single file we went in. There were a couple of Special Forces personnel viewing us, knowing all too well the reason behind our presence, but couldn’t do anything as, officially, we were costumers of Qased Khair.

We sat in a round table, ordered water and tea and acted absolutely normal. I don’t think we looked normal. I assured my brother, but looking back at the whole thing made me ever so grateful. Salem and I were almost laughing, and our scene was quite funny. Political protestors, almost arrested a few minutes ago, are enjoying a cup of tea like nothing is going on, like the drenched shirt on me was a normal thing.

To the political detainees, to the political activists, to the injured, I write and dedicate. This is nothing compared to other tales of oppression and use of excessive force, but it’s a means to remember and document.Most of what is written is a first-hand account of the events, but some are of what I heard as to the things that I didn’t see.I wrote a conformed piece of the events but it was unfortunately lost. So please excuse the lack of needed prowess in this piece, as it is my second time writing it.Finally, I’d like to thank Salem, my brother, Khaled and Saad as well as the others who shared my experience in this rally, and I apologize if I misrepresented any.