Category Archives: Box

Box by Hawra’a Khalfan

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Boxed in an alternate reality

clouded by truth and insecurities

in love with a notion of freedom

that I will never be accustomed to having

shackled to a world of the dominating

fighting and screaming to leave

to shatter it all;

and live,

and breathe,

and love,

and exist.

Boxed in a world of don’ts

a world of no’s

a world of must-not’s

lusting over mischief

with an appetite for my own self-destruction

craving life

and an exhilarating breath

craving a love that will knock me out of everything I know

craving a meaningful existence.

And no matter how many traditions I desolately stampede,

I am expected to abide, unshaken.

I am expected to feel grateful it’s not worse.

Box by Bader A. Shehab

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January 24, 1991 – Iraq

Chris: We should probably box-round the enemy base.

Andy: I’ve had recon on them for the last 12-hours we can go through no harm.

Chris: We’re just a few hundred kilometers away from Kuwait, I think it’s worth it if we box-round this base.

Andy: Chris, the base is badly monitored, half shifts on infantry, and the ground defence has been inactive since that scud missile hit Israel, this whole operation Desert Storm is complete garbage.

Chris: Hereford is asking for full caution at all times, regardless of intel, I know the war is almost over but we have got to cross to the Kuwaiti border even if it means box-rounding 500-kilometers more.

Andy: And all I’m asking for is common sense, on what logic are we to hit high desert at subzero degrees with hardly any rations left? When we are only a stone’s throw away from the UN green zone.

Chris: On the logic that we are to defend Kuwait and not risk alarming this enemy base that is basically a backdoor to the border. Please comply, that is an order; we will box-round the enemy base.

Andy: If intelligence says this area is fine, then I am going through, Kuwait is literally right there and it’s a green zone. I can see the burning oil dumps, I am not taking any unnecessary “precautions”.

Chris: No precaution is unnecessary! Stand down, soldier!

Andy: Who dares wins, aye Chris?

Chris: I said stand down, or…

Andy: Or what, Sergeant? Huh! This whole operation was a load o’ bollocks right from the start, you and I know it! Our comms went down 48-hours ago, we got seperated from the rest of the team because of bad weather which intel never informed us of, and the whole war is fucking over. The Americans are pulling out, for fuck’s sake the UN are at the border crossing!

Chris: And you’d like to make it any worse by walking through the base or sneaking by the fence. Then be my guest if you get shot at or captured… This isn’t how SAS go about operating.

Andy: Oh give me a break Chris, you and your special operations manual propaganda bullcrap, save it for the rest of the team who are probably lost out in the desert.

Chris: They are fully-equipped and trained men, they will manage, but right now it’s you and I, or if you’d like it to be; you or I. This is the last time I ask of you to comply, going to radio-in our locations. We are heading North from our current position to the Safwan area, and from there we will meet with allied forces, then head East to Kuwait, and I promise you we’ll head home after that.

Andy: You’ve got your thumb up your arse, Chris…

Chris: Do it for Kuwait, Andy.

Andy: It’s not even my country.

Chris: But it’s your pay day.

Andy: And what if Saddam takes her?

Chris: Not on my watch he won’t, not on the NATO’s watch, or the US’s.

Andy: Oh you hero you, defending a country that’s not even yours. Haha!

Chris: Let’s move, do your job!

Andy: Fine, you sad sob…

Box by Toby Al-R

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I know some people believe in angels, see I don’t understand that, but anyways.

There are more galaxies out there than the grains of sand on this planet, so what do I know?

We tend to dismiss this splendid conundrum of life and we worry about jobs, exams and things that are shallower than a second coat of paint on a bench seat.

The mouth of curiosity and wisdom is speaking to us, with the language of silence and the sound of nothing, how can we understand it? It is sitting there like a big block of foggy ice waiting for us to break it.

So then, let me say this; my last romantic date was with an escort… I had to pause there, I can feel the awkwardness around me. Well she was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. What? I thought you believe in angels, what happened now?

It is okay, time is a mystic teacher. But time needs time.

You see, life drilled things into my forehead like an alienating Indian ritual; I am not supposed to be understood and I owe nothing to anybody.

Prospective can be different once the boundaries are dissolved, to become one with the universe, nakedly dancing in the spiritual lake of ease.

The ill concealers will do their best with their hypnotizing gadgets and silly toy guns. But the truth always shines itself out, it shines so brightly it will end up blinding them. Then they will say; well now we can’t see it. I say they can’t handle it.

We worry about things that might never happen, what are we afraid of? Unleash yourself, follow your curiosity; you are not going to die! Well… you actually might, depending on your level of imagination.

But then I think death is exciting. Think of it that way; at least you won’t have to go to the toilet again, ever. Or sleep with an alarm on; so you can wake up for a stupid job only to make money and buy trivial stupid things.

Or it could well be the final answer to our philosophical question; what is afterlife? It is possible that an angel will fall, take your hand and escort you… well let’s not go there again.

I think being dead is to be dead, complete nothingness. The good thing about it that you wouldn’t know it happened anyway, because you just died. I think it is a win win situation. But what do I know?

They say we are made of stardust or perhaps clot of blood. I think we are made of illusionary microorganisms, fifth dimensional bacteria of the vast universe.

Whatever it is, whoever we are; I kind of like it. This ceremonial platform is filled with; mystery, dance, drama, sensational touches, kisses, winks, hugs songs, painting naked bodies, expression, creativity, smiles, individuality and chasing love.

It is fun, take it easy, enjoy it and don’t forget; your life is inside an invisible box of glass. Break it! Shatter it! And walk through. Underneath you, you will hear the ground cracking festive sounds.

Box by Hind

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She hands me two papers, clumsily stapled together. I ask her for a pen. At first, she acts like she hasn’t heard my question. I’m just another number, another person who was careless enough to show up without a pen. But something in the way I stood there at the counter made her look back. Maybe it was my face, because it usually reminds people of someone familiar. And no matter how much you want to, you can’t ignore someone you know.

She points to a corner, where a cap-less pen lies stranded on a table. I walk over and place my paper next to it. Five boxes, five questions. Five minutes to fill out the form.

Box one. Name.

My name is not my own. I was named after my grandmother, a woman who was married off by her father at the age of fifteen. A woman I never saw because she died two years before I was born. I think of myself at fifteen, dressed in denim and climbing that scrawny tree in my aunt’s front yard. Peeling bits of dry bark from its trunk, the coarseness of which was as foreign to me as the concept of marriage.

Box two. Age.

I am older than I look, and feel older than my years. I am silly around children, somber around adults, and withered among old friends.

Box three. Gender.

I’ve worn dresses and makeup. Helmets and soccer shoes. I wobbled in heels one night and tossed them out because I decided I could walk just fine without them. I’ve spoken softly and loudly, using the same voice. I love math, monarch butterflies, and glitter. I am more than my X chromosomes. I am more than what I choose to wear, what I choose to cover, and what I choose to do with my womb.

Box four. Occupation.

I am a healer, a teacher, a muse. A difficult daughter, protective sister, and the worst enemy you can ever make. Some jobs I am paid for, others I do for free.

Box five. Address.

I’ve lived in three countries and nine different homes. I keep a brown box filled with my childhood toys that moves with me wherever I go. It’s the only one I never unpack. Everything else comes and goes: furniture, carpets, and frames. Nothing stays the same in my world. We move, move along. Afraid of being caught, of being left behind.

Five minutes have passed. The last box is filled and the pen runs out of ink. Five questions, five answers. The span of my life, in five little boxes.