Category Archives: Prose

Voiceless by Hawra’a Khalfan

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She opened her eyes to once again reunite with a world that she feels alien in. She opened her eyes with a suffocating passion towards something she can not control. She opens her eyes to find all the doors she saw in her dreams closed shut.

Forcing her already wrinkled thirty year old face into a smile. This is how I’m going to look all day. She repeated to herself, forcing an even wider smile. She almost climbed out of bed without giving him a kiss.

She lifted the sand colored mattress to reveal a hidden creased photograph. Her grief-stricken eyes have studied this photograph so many times, endlessly. She can mentally draw it out, spec by spec. It was of a young boy, holding a kite that was half flying in the wind, and half on its way towards the ground. He was wearing a knitted sweater, decorated with holes. He didn’t seem to care that his kite was on it’s way down- his smile lit up the picture like a thousand suns. That smile set her heart on fire again, and she couldn’t let herself go there. After quickly giving the photo a kiss she placed it back under her mattress.

No. It has happened again. Here they come. She mentally fights a million wars within herself daily. Some days are better than others. She screamed, fueled by the momentum of his thousand suns. She begins gasping for air; and the more she gasps the more it hurts; the more she feels it the more it’s real; the more she tries the more she plummets down, down, and further down; into that hole she’s been living in.

There was nothing left to say, she has spoken out and yelled and fought. All words have lost all meaning. She can’t fight with them and prove that she belongs. She can’t prove her love and devotion to this land. She can’t say more than she already has. She wailed to let it out, feeling her heart stop vibrating altogether. There was no more left of her to give. He was all she had. He was the only family she had left, and he was electrocuted to death at the age of seven.

Voiceless by Merriam AlFuhaid

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“Waaaaaaaah!”

Wake up, parental units. No, I don’t need my diaper changed. No, I don’t need to be fed. I’m just bored. Since I can’t sit upright yet and watch TV, looking at your exhausted faces at 3 AM is the next best thing. And let me tell you, it’s pretty damn good. The schedule is fairly predictable: First, we have what I call The Mommy Show, which is cool but it comes on all the time, and I get tired of mentally making fun of Mommy’s singing voice. If I manage to cry for 45 minutes to an hour straight, then I get The Daddy Show. The Daddy Show is my favorite because Daddy is scared of breaking babies. And let me tell you, that is fun to watch.

No one is scared of breaking adults. Some people actually make a living out of it. (I think they’re called police officers?) But I’m a baby. I’m considered untouchable. Because I’m useless and incapable of speaking, somehow I’ve convinced everyone that they have to do whatever I want, all the time. I don’t know how this happened. I’m not even cute yet—I’m bald and toothless. If that were appealing in the adult world, Daddy would have found someone way hotter than Mommy.

The best thing is, because people can’t figure out what I want most of the time, instead of breaking up with me and telling their friends I’m crazy, they just try giving me everything I could possibly want until something makes me shut up. The cool thing is I discover that a bunch of stuff I didn’t want is pretty awesome too. For example, they always assume I’m hungry when I cry. And I’m like, dude, I don’t do anything. I lie in bed all day. What do you think could be making me hungry this often? But thanks to what is either stupidity or the desperate hope that I won’t be able to cry with my mouth full (not true), I’ve discovered the joys of emotional eating. When I grow up, I’m going to eat to dull the pain of the unbearable isolation of the human condition, but right now I do it because nothing helps me sleep at night like demonstrable evidence of my power.

The whole setup is so awesome I don’t even mind the main drawback, which is that everyone sees me naked all the time. And then they take pictures and show their friends. I was quite offended in the beginning, until I realized that this is the only phase of my life where my au naturel pictures will be called cute and not sexual harassment. Plus, after looking around at my parents and their friends, it seems that this is the best my body will ever look anyway.

The depressing thing, though, is that this is going to end. Sometimes I actually cry about it, and even the power aspect of my tears can’t make me feel better, because when my parents show up I’m just like, “Oh crap, I’m going to end up being a loser like you.” The only thing that does cheer me up is remembering something my older brother once said, which was that no one really considers you an adult until first grade. By that standard, I have more than five and a half years left to do whatever the hell I want. So until then…

“Waaaaaah!”

Voiceless by Fahd AlSaleh

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They need to know!
(a.k.a. What’s inside the box?)

“She doesn’t need to know”, “please don’t tell him”, “she’ll get scared”, “it’s best if he doesn’t know”. These are phrases that we, as medical professionals, unfortunately hear every day. In medical school our teachings are based on four rules: autonomy, beneficence, non-maleficence, and justice. These are considered the pillars of medicine.

Beneficence is bringing benefit and improvement to the patient while at the same time not causing them harm i.e. non-maleficence. Justice is making sure that access to proper healthcare is equal to all. The focus of this piece is on autonomy, which is rule number one and is the most important of them all.

Autonomy is defined as the freedom of thought, intention, and action with regards to a patient’s healthcare. In layman’s terms it’s their body and they are free to do whatever they choose to it. So, it is their decision to undergo treatment, taking a certain medication or undergoing surgery. It also the patient’s choice to refuse the intervention. In the end it is their body that is going through this ordeal. Not their son’s or daughter’s, not their brother’s or sister’s and most importantly not a friend who is “like family”.

In Kuwait, and in most Arab states, this rule is not followed. The patient’s family usually try to hide sensitive information from their mothers, fathers, etc. The rationale regarding this is usually “they will get scared” or “get depressed”. That they wouldn’t be able to comprehend or understand the situation. That they will not be able to make the right decision.

The question that I always ask these people is “wouldn’t you want to know what’s happening to you?”

In my opinion, hiding or lying to the patients only protects them from the initial shock of the bad news. In our line of work, unfortunately, delivering the message is often hard. No matter how nicely we phrase it, telling a person that they have cancer or that their leg needs be amputated will always be difficult to us and to the patient. But what amazes me every day is how good these patients absorb this initial shock and shortly thereafter maintain a positive mentality towards the rest of their treatment. What makes things usually worse is when the patient is kept in the dark. H.P. Lovecraft said “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown”.

Imagine yourself taking an exam but you don’t know what the subject is. Or fighting a war but you don’t know who or what is your enemy. How can a person undergo surgery or get treatment for something they don’t know. In the end managing and treating a patient is a two-way street. A patient must be aware of the possible side effects or signs of disease progression. Imagine yourself saying to person “look I’m going to give you a box with an item inside. I will not tell what the item is. But what I can tell you is that the item may or may not lead to some sort of trouble in the future. This trouble may be a minor issue but may also become quite serious or life threatening. Unfortunately, I cannot tell you what’s inside the box in fear that your mental state may get affected. This is by the request of your family. Bearing in mind that knowing about what’s inside the box may actually help you deal with whatever you may face.”

Some may argue that a person has the right not to know. Maybe someone doesn’t want to know what’s inside the box. To these individuals, I say you are correct. Part of our protocol in breaking bad news is usually telling a patient that they have a serious medical condition and before we go into details we should ask and confirm if they want to know more details. Some opt for knowing and some opt for not knowing. Some may change their minds later and want more information in the future. In the end, it is their right and not their families.

Lying or withholding information can make things worse. Because in the end lies can only breed more lies. Let me give you an example from my own personal experience. A situation which I for the most part feel ashamed to have been part of. A while back, a young mother brought in her eight-year-old boy who was complaining from abdominal pain for the past two days. After our assessment, it was proven that he had acute appendicitis which would require emergency surgery. His mother hid this from him and requested us to do so as well. The boy was keen and observant. He kept asking questions from the trolley in the emergency room all the way to ward and from there to the operating room. He asked “why do I need an IV cannula?”, “Why are putting me in a medical gown?”, “Why are you taking me from my room? Where am I going?”. He then asks “are you going to operate on me?” and we say no. The questions just keep coming and we try our best to deflect them as much as we can. On the operating table while being prepped for surgery he asks “what is it that you are attaching to my legs?” I mistakenly say this for the diathermy probe we use during surgery. His pupils widen and I can see the tear forming at the angle of his eye. And before I could rectify the situation the anaesthetic medications that was pumped into his vein had done its job and he was sound asleep with tears going down his cheeks.

After the surgery, he was mostly distraught and angry at us and mostly his mother because we didn’t tell him the truth. He was discharged the next day. All this time he kept silent and didn’t speak a single word. All of this could have been avoided if we simply just said the truth in the beginning. “But he is only eight, he is a child. It is ok”. You might say that but see after a few weeks he came to our clinic to follow up and his mother said to us he no longer trusts her anymore. Her relationship with her son changed. His image of his mother has changed. His core beliefs were wounded and if it ever may heal it will definitely leave a scar bigger than his surgery.

Also, another example witnessed quite recently. We had two patients in the same ward and their rooms were next to each other. Every day when we rounded on the patients we would pass them by one after the other. Both were admitted with similar issues and both had to have one of their legs amputated just above the knee in an emergency setting. One was fortunate to get a full detailed explanation of what was about to happened and what will happen later. The other was unfortunate to have had a difficult family that forced us not tell him. Both had the surgery. One knew what happened and began his rehabilitation a few days after surgery. The other was shocked and felt betrayed for he woke up and found one of his legs missing. The first was discharged 5 days later. The second stayed in hospital for roughly 2 months. He was also depressed and refused to undergo rehabilitation. A few weeks later both were seen in the clinic. The first was walking with an artificial limb the other was bound to a wheelchair. Mostly likely for the rest of his life.
I can go on and on about this all day but it will never matter if we as a community don’t change. Walt Whitman wrote in his poem leaves of grass “Not I, nor anyone else can travel that road for you. You must travel it by yourself”. This is by far the best explanation/summary to this whole problem. It doesn’t matter if you are a child or an old frail grandfather. If we ever in life get ill, it is only ourselves who are ill. And it is only ourselves who will get the treatment. Instead of being one of those who hides the truth let us be those who embrace it. Let us become the sturdy walls that they can lean upon. Let us stretch out our helping hands and not to covers their eyes. And always ask those who oppose “Don’t you want to know what’s inside the box?”

Voiceless by Mariam AlMutairi

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I wish i could lay under a telescope and let them study me, to strip down my bones and maybe then my mother would understand why my vocal cords traveled from my throat down to my hands. Maybe then will she smile when i scratch my face, because that’s my way of telling her i missed her, and that i’m tired of being close to my enemy.

I try to spell her name, but my hand shivers from the beginning, and I end up leaving her with a cold letter that doesn’t belong to a martyr who spent 30 years bleeding. She tries to get close to me, but i crawl back and glue my body to the wall. She’s crying and i’m scratching my face till it bleeds.

Mom, Can you hold my hand without asking me why my veins take the shape of your silhouette?
Can you take me back home and let me sleep without checking my heartbeat every 20 seconds?
Can you disarm me when the weapon is my hand?
Can you sit 10 meters away from me, and still keep an eye on me?
Can you read me a bedtime story that doesn’t end with me trying to convince you that i am not a caged bird?
Can you smile for me?
Can you keep the coffin open on nights when my skin craves the bedbugs you pray away?

Mom, pity the disease for choosing a body of a voyager, and feel sorry for the people who were waiting for my heroic story.

Voiceless by Toby Al-R

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To all the voiceless out there, I am not here to give you a voice, let’s get that right, it doesn’t trouble me to confess that I don’t care enough.

I am however inclined with a transcendent tendency to assuage and calm the entry of the Trojan horse into the gate.

I feel like I should say this;

It is more for my ears than yours,

That I have reached a conclusion; through skepticism, reason, rationalism and brain drilling arguments, that we all are… freaks in a freak show.

So embrace yourselves and raise your glass and I will be the first raise mine.

To all the voiceless bullied out there, enchant your minds with the realization that your bullies are victims of their unhappiness and unsatisfactory incompleteness. But if you don’t want to build their castles with your rubbles, then just smack the twat in the head. You will be surprised of the outcome and their hesitation to bully you again.

To all the shy and voiceless nerds and geeks out there, keep wearing your mystic cloaks and use your kukri daggers to plunder pouches of gold coins so you can purchase potions of health in your journey to defeat the gargantuan sea urchin lurking in the hidden swamp, in order to access the next level of whatever the fuck is your quest… keep living there, trust me it is a better world than the one we live in.

To all the dying out there… well, I guess we all are going to follow you sooner or later. Make the most of today, and hey! No one really knows what happen when the game is over, right?

To all the rejected and voiceless homosexuals, for one thing; statistically you are more elegant, good looking, organized and creative. Secondly; you are secretly doing humanity a favor in balancing the planet’s population. So keep splashing your colors, you are the Knights of nature whom swore an oath not to over populate a dying planet.

To the voiceless depressed and suicidal, it is a mistake that is commonly made to think that what you are feeling today is necessarily going to be the same feelings you will have in the near or far future, stay tuned and be positive, you never know what will happen! But if you insist to die… then refer to category 3!

To the voiceless insecure and lonely ones, trust me; there is no better company than yourself. I am always alone and never lonely. Imagination is far more entertaining than any conversation you might have, discover your endless maze of your mind. This life is a mysterious puzzle box, shuffle the pieces, free a bird, feed a puppy, count the stars, color a butterfly wings, collect seashells, plant a tree, and keep chasing that one look she gave to you near a grocery store. Never make the mistake to be insecure, as we are all strange, different, grotesque, odd and bizarre in one way or another… but believe in yourself and you will perform miracles… I personally moved three mountains and caught a shooting star, but all of this is irrelevant to you, because this life is a self-journey, and we all are freaks in a freak show.

After all, if you still can’t find your voice, then… trying drinking water.

Book by Hawra’a Khalfan

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Life has taught me not to trust, and not to welcome. I was taught to shelter myself from everybody.  To shield myself from even those who seem to be worthy.  People wear masks and those masks only perish when it’s too late.  When you’ve given all you can give, when parts of you are deeply invested and it’s hard to step away. Continue reading →

Traitor by Merriam AlFuhaid

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You look at me like I have betrayed you. Have I? Or have I only betrayed the expectations you had of the person you wanted me to be? I don’t think that is the same thing. I don’t think my life is related to the feelings I have towards you. You disagree, but then, you don’t understand why you drive people away. I would not leave you, but I understand everyone who has. Perhaps it wasn’t right, but I know exactly how they felt. Continue reading →

Traitor by Hind

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She looked out the window, alarmed by the rattling of the gate. A cloud of dust edged towards the trees. The branches swayed apprehensively, scaring the birds away from their nests. But the sand kept moving, indifferent to the destruction it brought to her home’s garden. Continue reading →

Traitor by Bader A. Shehab

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Remember back in Rabat?
When the wind blew against our cheeks,
with it sticks to your derm the sea salt, on the edges of your nostrills: the fresh bakery, the durum wheat stew, and the remedies of their hands.

Do you remember before I left the city? The promises we made,
from the cradle to the grave,
you know how we would not desert one another and whatnot,
it was all that repetitive cliché and hopeless romances,
which we episodically performed on every Tuesday night while the retired blues band played their sorrowing sway away into the haze. We danced and I held your hips, from ballroom to ballroom, wasn’t that fun back then?

Do you recall and find it in your heart the first night I got on stage for you? The Parisian one-man theater, I mastered and learned, just for you. All I wanted was to see your smile under the moonlit starry nights, amongst the many faces in the candlelights. Then I got in the fighting ring for you and lost touch with my senses when I bled and sweat for you, you chanted my name in the echoes of the stadium, amongst the crowd you were all I could see and hear.

Do you remember when I carried you across the Andalusia park to the car when it rained heavily so that you don’t ruin your Tom Fords? Do you remember when I held your long and slender body along the flat board as you swallowed salt water on tiny baby waves trying to learn how to surf? That was fun, wasn’t it?

Do you remember when I watched you walk across the ocean lines, the winds playing on your summer dress, the sea weed sticking on your ankle lace, and the sand under the edges of your nail polish. Do you remember? That Spanish song that goes “Baila, Baila Mi” and we promised we’ll keep it as our song and we’ll play it for our children one day, how does one move on and simply forget all about that? The sounds that I hear as I ask myself such questions are nothing but fainted heartbeats and cringing doors closing. Good bye to my yesteryears, please do write me back, pick the pen up sometime.

Lipstick by Areej

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“You go on ahead. I’ll just throw this out,” he nodded, his mouth twisting into a half-smile of pursed lips and sunken eyes. As she left, he watched the bell above the door ring once, twice, three times, announcing her departure. She won’t be calling him back. Their corner table had been slightly uncomfortable, but it served its purpose. Five coffees were made behind the counter; the timer going off at one-minute intervals. Continue reading →

Melancholy by Toby Al-R

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I took a pause and thought about the idea of depression, but I swiftly came to the conclusion that I and the idea are mutually divorced. I found inner peace long ago and I can’t seem to even remotely relate.

So I sat on my wooden mahogany desk, while resting my chin on my interlocked fingers; staring at a small statue of a stony Socrates face. It gazed back at me with its devious eyes and emitted to my mind gloomy visions of futuristic epochs.

Continue reading →

Melancholy by Merriam AlFuhaid

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The teardrop diamond earrings hung from her ears and glistened in the electric light, a hundred reflections dancing on the wall. I have seen perfection, and it was not in the mirror.

Harsh words have been thrown against me like pebbles against a windshield. It is difficult to break all the way, to be in such divided pieces that others would try to repair them. But it’s so easy to crack. Continue reading →

Seeds by Hind

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She’s seated in front of me, holding her baby. The clinic is quiet and the child is wide awake.
“He likes you.” She smiles and touches his nose. His eyes don’t blink. He is transfixed by my face, or my white-coat. You can never tell what they’re looking at at this age. Continue reading →

Seeds by Fatma AlSumaiti

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There’s a certain type of numbness that possesses you often. You feel exhilarated. Your insides are twisting in a raging war that you have signed up for voluntarily. Yet, your surroundings.. they feel blurred. Continue reading →

Seeds by Batool Hasan

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A kaleidoscope of shattered glass rain from the sky, falling atop one another in heaps. Sheltered by an invisible roof, I catch a pair of glowing orbs circling around me like vultures studying their prey. I step forward, daring to look closer. The orbs abruptly stop and stare, trying to calculate their next move. Continue reading →

Seeds by Bader A. Shehab

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It was prophesied thousands of years ago… Perhaps dating back to creation and immortalization, even long before Genesis itself…
The telepathic subtle emblems, graffiti on narrow alleys, worded hordes of poetry, and conjugal meetings of the great elements.
The mind would thrive on the elixir falls, where it would snow in hell, and pour lump sum of rain in the Sahara. Continue reading →

Jar by Batool Hasan

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The water turns hotter and hotter, as I try to scrub off the tingling ghosts your fingertips left on me. The crinkles of your smiling eyes flash behind my eyelids. My fingertips ache to trace the lines of your warm smile.

I scrub harder.

I blink.

Your teasing eyes.

I shake my head harder.

Red skin and scorching-hot water. Continue reading →

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.” By Bader A. Shehab

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“When the power of love overcomes the love of power the world will know peace.” Jimi Hendrix

1969 Woodstock, New York – It wasn’t long after the midnight blaze, loud thuds of headache bangs in my ears, my eyes blurring began fixating on a patch of blonde hair on my crotch belonging to this random chick passed out and the dusty air whirling around the sunlit curtains across the room penetrates the cigarette burns of the old cloth. I find my away across the creaking wood floors carefully negotiating the sleeping bodies around, I myself still figuring out how I ended up here, where was I exactly, whose house is this and where was my other pair of shoes? Continue reading →

Echo by Bader A. Shehab

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“If you keep doing whatever it is your job requires you doing then you won’t last very long, girl.” My mother spoke on the other side of the bathroom door as I washed the blood stains off my left forearm then looked up at the mirror and addressed traumatic blows to my cheek bones, nose and lower lip. I poured some Medline into a wet towel and cleansed the rest of my wounds thoroughly. I pushed the door open and there she was still standing there with a worried look on her face, eyes glaring with horror and she held my chin pulling my face to one side and the other.

“What did they do to my baby?” She cried. “Instead of getting a nice job, marry your high school sweetheart and buy yourself a nice little place in Long Island, no! You keep doing this piece of shit turn-up of a job you call your life…” Before she could go on any longer with the usual daily tirade I gently move her hand off my chin, kiss it and kiss her forehead before wishing her goodnight. I collapse on the couch, too tired to go to bed.

I jolt from near-death tiring sleep to a full-alert snapping out of a nightmare responding to the radio chatter on the portable ham radio emergency frequency – “All nearby units in the Bronx area please respond to a major shooting incident off West 6th Avenue, Robinson Projects. Report 4 males, Hispanic, 20s, possible hostage situation, proceed with caution suspects are armed and extremely dangerous.” The emergency dispatch repeated the message several more times as I snatched my badge, Glock .45, loading and turning on the safety, and barged out of the apartment door. I held the radio closely interrupting the emergency dispatch “Unit 32, Officer Jennifer Jiménez on call, on my way.” There was silence from the operator for some time as the emergency channel muted and a woman’s voice came on as I got in the car – “Unit 32, roger, be careful out there.” The Dodge Charger’s Hemi 6.2 liter engine revved under my foot as I warmed her up in this harsh cold, storming out of the parking lot I turn on the flasher and sirens, the little bit of traffic dispersed around make way for my unmarked vehicle and I race through red lights and intersections at full speed.

The reported shooting place is a mere 3 or 4 blocks away and needless to say I make it there in less than 10 minutes, I turn the last corner and I see several units at the scene with sirens and flashes silencing the dead cold of the night with the red and blue and high-pitched alarming sounds. The ghetto residential blocks, the projects, and low income housing around the imminent area of conflict are no strangers to such scenes. An eye in the sky police helicopter circles above with a powerful spot light trained on a ground floor apartment complex and from a distant a news-broadcasting helicopter from NBC impatiently waiting for something to happen. I drove hastily up to an empty space near the other vehicles parked across the street from the suspects’ hold-up, got out the car with my head low and crouched behind one of the marked vehicles parked horizontally and tapped a shoulder.

“What’s the situation, officer?”

“We’ve got four guys, possibly more, trenched in and well-dug. Just an hour ago several gun shots were heard and the chopper picked up images of a body being dragged to the last apartment complex right up the street from here” responded officer Trent as I nodded and moved away to the next vehicle where a large speaker was turned on and police negotiator Thomas McKinley was desperately trying to get control of the situation – because things got ugly very quickly that very second as he stood up and held the speaker phone to his mouth.

Automatic weapon fire went by across the street and we were right in the middle of it, screams were heard, mostly in Spanish and before I knew it – Officer Trent and everyone else were on the radio desperately calling for backup. I took off my jacket, the adrenaline rush uttered me senseless to the harsh Christmas cold, kept my head low as more gunshots went off in the distance, and the place was escalating. Reaching into my car I dragged an 8-pound armor vest, put it on discretely and zipped it up to my neck. I holstered my Glock .45 turning off the safety and swiftly moved to the trunk of my car and took out a SWAT-issue M4 Carbine as I knew this would get even uglier. More sirens and flashes were approaching at the end of the street, enclosing our area. As I walked across my car I saw my phone’s light go off, it caught my eye in the middle of all this chaos because the caller ID read: “Mom”, I knew she was probably worried sick not finding me asleep as expected, watching the breaking news, most likely guessing that I’m in the middle of it – or about to be. I would have taken that split second slip in the middle of the crazy atmosphere to pop in and answer, hear her screams and cries with a tired and sorrow, yet happy smile drawn across my weathered facial skin, something I don’t do much of in my line of work – smile. When I hear her voice once more, perhaps it will drag me back to the safety of her arms, her caring hands caressing my injuries, battle wounds and scars. Braiding my hair on a Friday afternoon, picking up groceries and making a warm meal on a cold evening, most likely interrupted by the usual dispatch calls – gloom draws on her face and horrible worrisome as I zip my jacket and hang the badge around my neck.

I held the rifle in one arm and the other talking into the loudspeaker, I spoke in Spanish and the shouts at the other end of the conflict were silenced – possibly hearing a woman’s voice over the loudspeaker for a change, speaking in their language and calming the storm, for the time being. “This is the police, please drop your weapons and come out with your hands up. Nothing will happen to you if you comply.” I repeated this several more times in my mother’s tongue and it seemed to work as I heard responses in the distance, as though trying to communicate back. I moved in closer keeping my rifle at the ready for any surprises, the police chief was there as well and he pulled on my shoulder “Don’t go any closer! It’s dangerous!” said Commissioner Johnson.

“I have to do something before more people die…” I responded and he nodded, signaled for a squad to follow me across the street just in case – I lead the way, several SWAT members followed me as I eased my way against the wall and screamed again at the voice, immediately responding. “I am not coming out of here! I want 2 million dollars in unmarked bills and a helicopter on the roof or I will shoot this whole family up!”

“Listen to me” I responded, sticking to Spanish as much as possible. “You don’t wanna do it this way; this won’t go well for you, just drop your guns and I can promise you, give you my word that I’ll make this a lot easier for you.” I’m not allowed to solicit the negotiation but the solidarity took over me as I see my own countryman fall into shambles, with nothing to lose and automatic weapons roaming freely. I popped my head out of the corner quickly to take a peak but more gunshots came in my direction – I felt hands pull me violently back to cover: “Get behind one of us!” a masked face commanded me fully-equipped with tactical gear and armor vest, I use to be one of them for a few years. I tapped a shoulder as I got behind in cover and at the ready – this is going to get even uglier than expected. Shoot outs are devastating in this part of the country, and perhaps for the countless time the news helicopter catches my face as I am about to storm another sticky situation.

But if it is one thing on my mind at every life-risking situation like this one, it’s my mother’s voice, her touch, caring eyes, soulful food and passionate sighs as I am out that door revving the Dodge, driving out at 80 miles an hour, living life on the edge for the lowest pay day. My guardian angel of the night and day echoes in my mind, her words are the last thing I hear before radio chatter, gun shots and boots grinding the floor take over and intensify my focus as we’re about to neutralize the criminals.

Mountain by Hawra’a Khalfan

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The first time the police drove me home I was eighteen years old. I couldn’t be at home anymore, I couldn’t breathe in that unswerving state. It didn’t matter how hard I inhaled, I was gasping empty breaths. I carried around a wrinkled old brown bag everywhere with me. I couldn’t even go to the bathroom without it. It was an extension to my being. The more wrinkled that bag got, the more I realized that this isn’t it for me. That’s when it all started. That’s when I realized I couldn’t live that life anymore. Continue reading →