Category Archives: Hawra’a Khalfan

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.

Jay by Hawra’a Khalfan

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“I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed, you know?”

“Yes, go on…”

“Laa’- oh my god- I don’t know how to express this. I just woke up feeling like today something is going to change. I didn’t know what, though. It was one of those shuffle shuffle tap tap days, everything was normal, but I wasn’t. My brain wasn’t normal. One of the switches in my head was just turning fluorescent and pounding. You know? So when he yelled “Jassim, your orders are all wrong. What’s going on with you today, is everything okay with you?” That fluorescent switch erupted like Shiveluch on steroids. And I was just like yup – I’m done – that’s it. I’m fed up of all these broken promises to myself to leave this place. I’m fed up of all the maybe’s and the tomorrow’s. I want to feel free. I want to let go of this shit! Abi atnafas! Every breath I’ve taken for the first twenty years of my life was pungent with the stench of regret and longing over all the time I wasted. Bas. That’s it. I’m peacing out of this bitch. Oo you know how good the Kuwaiti in me is at dramatic exits? Fa I tore off my apron and exhaled ‘FUCK. YOU. SALEH.’ I then flattened out my frustrated forehead, he’d love to be the reason my face is full of wrinkles in five years, wouldn’t he?” He smirked. ”Anyways, having imagined this moment a million times over I thought I’d have more to say than these three words. Bas somehow, and for some reason, they sufficed. I threw my apron on the ground and ran out. Ya’nee I don’t need the money from the job tech-ni-cally. Baba covers necessities, so I just got it so i’d be able to afford a laptop case, which I technically got. Months ago. So, it’s fine. I’m fine. I can live without new nice things for a while…”

Silence devoured the room whole and erupted within them. They were now lost within their colossal trains of reflection, which they both struggled to barricade and contain. After a deep minute, she finally prevailed to halt the silence and annihilate it. She anchored her pen back in its natural habitat between her fingertips.

“How do you feel now?”

“You know, this moment reminds me of one of my mother’s favorite stories about me as a kid. I dressed up in my sisters cinderella gown, and rushed to show my parents how pretty I looked in it, too. All I got as a response was a lecture on how it was ‘wrong’. Ya’nee I still don’t quite fully understand why it was wrong. I was like five, for fucks sake. I just wanted to be pretty.”

“Why does it remind you of that, exactly? What parallels can you find between both situations?”

“I don’t know, really, I just remember how I erupted then, and how I erupted today. I refused to speak to my parents for a week after that. I just wanted to be pretty! My mother painted her face and straightened her hair day and night. But when I mimicked her I was wrong! Of course I was met with the ‘you’re a man- you should be strong’, but I never comprehended that, either. My strength doesn’t have to be physical or emotional, what’s wrong with that ya’nee?”

He looked up examining the room, exhausted from all the gray he divulged. She didn’t respond, preferring to treat that question rhetorically. They sat in silence, mentally picking at his embers.

“So, you’re saying the only relationship you find between both experiences is your self expression?”

He nodded. She scribbled more attentively into her notepad, then looked up at him with a small smirk on her face.

“So, what now?” She asked.

“Now!” The question caught him off guard, causing a million thoughts to flood back into his mind. In reality, he hadn’t thought of ‘now’ at all. “Um, What now?” His hands automatically sought each other for solace. “I don’t know. I want to do something I’m good at. I’m good at writing, I think. You know they say every writer’s worst critic is him or herself. Wallah If i’m being really honest, I only applied for the waitressing gig because of baba, he refuses to pay for things he considers ‘luxuries’, whatever that means. I needed that Balenciaga laptop case, just like I needed the Bulgari sunglasses after that.” I paused. “I mean, we do live in a dessert! The sun is blinding. Does he want me to go blind! It’s not like I asked him for a private jet!” He immediately recognized that he was going to dig himself into another tantrum, so he interrupted himself by flattening down his ruffled forehead. “Wallah, at this rate, i’m going to get wrinkles faster than a homeless cokehead.” He smiled.

She studied his face, posture, hands and his face shape. He looked to her like someone who was once full of passion.

“You’re saying you don’t need to get another job?”

“No. I’m going to eventually need the money. But for now I’ll look. Maybe I can get some freelance work?” Having realized she was reading his body language, he was starting to get self conscious about his facial expressions and manually flattened his forehead again gently.

“You said you have a Bachelor of English Literature, and a Masters of Arts in Creative Writing?”

“If you want to be technical about it, yeah.”

“Have you tried to pursue being a teacher, or a writer?”

“Hellz no!” He burst. “Me, a teacher?”

She looked at him patiently waiting for an explanation.

He gulped a mouthful of air. “Okay, this is how I see it. I can’t teach just because I love the language. It’s not enough. I don’t love teaching. I just love literature. Ya’nee imagine what I’d do to the little fuckers they put me in charge of!” His eyes zoomed in on her zealous pen and notepad. “Look, I love the mystery behind it. I love figuring out what makes writers write. My dream is to find a physical entity within a writer that is the part in their brain that blends in all their experiences at that moment in their life and just create using it all.” He looked down at his hands, “just CRE-ATE! You know? And as for being a writer; let’s be realistic. Before the crash it was hard to make a living writing, and now it’s actually impossible. Even if I wanted to sell my soul to the devil and write for a newspaper, i’d be making more more money as a waiter.”

“So, is it about money or not? As a young adult today, where do you think this need for luxury comes from?”

“I think that’s an unfair question. Where does anybody’s need for luxury come from?” He started getting agitated. “I just needed those things. I didn’t spend that money on things I didn’t use. It’s just like things I needed.”

“That doesn’t answer the question. Why did you need a laptop case that you would only be able to afford after months of saving. Why not just a regular decently priced one?”

“For the quality, it is decently priced.”

She gave him a blank expression. She wondered how he can still give such a response.

“Inzain, there was this one kid who at school with me. His name was Mish’al. The only honest way to describe him is if you call him an ogre. He was rude, foul, smelly, and just weia’. Nobody wanted to be his friend. His idea of ‘joking’ with you was to wipe his snot on his hand and hunt you down, threatening to wipe it on you. He did it to me TWICE. Am-baih. I’m still tormented by him today. You can imagine that he had no friends, and he made up for that by eating his heart out during recess.” He giggled “Once we all signed a petition to get the school to kick him out, which led us all to get recess detention for a week. Fa anyway, I was in seventh grade at the time and faj’aa Mish’al shows up to school with a Nokia in his hand. That was a huge deal. Ya’nee the only people I knew with cellphones were Stacey Dash and my dad. You know? Suddenly, his eating habits were “cute” and his popularity boosted to the extent that people huddled around just to watch him play Snake. Suddenly, he had the ‘cool’ parents who let him bring his phone to school. Suddenly he was invited to everyone’s birthday party. Suddenly, I started seeing his face everywhere. And all he needed for that was a phone! So, before I knew it, I was begging baba for a phone. But by the time I got one it wasn’t good enough because there was this new thing called an iPod, which became the more exclusive thing to have. I just HAD to be the first to get one. And the cycle began. If you didn’t get nice things when they’re the thing to have, you basically don’t have a social life anymore.”

“You’re saying your need for things is directly related to your popularity. You still haven’t answered the question though- where do you think your need for luxury comes from?”

A puzzled look sculpted itself on his face. “I don’t know,” He whispered to himself.

Terminal by Hawra’a Khalfan

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I look up at the fluorescent lights; at the perfectly lined up squares covering the ceiling.  My eyes flirt with the smoke detector, as my mind wanders to a world where I have the health to light up a cigarette, and set it off.  Ironic, isn’t it? That when you can, you justify it.  But when it might possibly be the reason you’re in this mess to begin with; you don’t loathe it- but you loathe yourself for letting it slaughter you.

A smirk creeps onto my face abruptly.  Oh, the amount of people I may never have known if it wasn’t for it.  And as soon as my smirk settled; it fluttered off by her voice.

She screams, as if her soul is in yearn for an escape.

She bawls, as if there was nothing left to live for, but pain.

She howls, as a reminder to all the provinces, that she, unfortunately still exists.

She cries from the agony of breath.

She is now laying still, as tears camouflage her face

And her mind jolts itself into the darkest corner within, she

thinks of him,

thinks of them,

alongside everything there is to think about, before she can think no more.

She feels aches in every lump of her that still exists

But the most painful ache there is,

Is that despite all of this; all she yearns for

Is to have him stand beside her mechanical bed

And hover over her, silently.

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.

Book by Hawra’a Khalfan

By Posted in Book, Hawra'a Khalfan, Prose 1 Comment

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 Hawra’a Khalfan

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Take the care I had for you,
exhale in a balloon made up of your deepest hopes,
and burst it with my bare teeth.

Take all the thoughts I had about you,
all the moments I wasted with you jolting recklessly into my mind
at all odd hours of the day,
and charge them into that abyss you seem to be living in.

I want to wreck you.

Shatter you.

Power over your stubbornness.
until you’re unable of ever going a day
without regretting
how you crumbled us up with your bare hands
crushing our dreams
with casual routine.

I would have loved you,
had you let me
I would have loved you
had you….
I would have shaken you awake,
because darling,
no amount of water would have put out our blaze.

Take all the moments you stole from me,
and blend them with the repulsed feeling I get when I remember your face,
and walk away
smiling.

Seeds by Hawra’a Khalfan

By Posted in Hawra'a Khalfan, Poetry, Seeds Leave a comment

The institute of education is now corrupt,
it has been refashioned
from something that was so pure-
from purely wanting to spread knowledge, and
to influence,
to nurture those who will be brilliant.
The institute of education has now become:
Do the minimum you can, to get a grade, which will tell you how smart you are.
Memorize words without understanding the depth behind them. Continue reading →

“We loved with a love that was more than love.” by Hawra’a Khalfan

By Posted in Blood, Hawra'a Khalfan, Poetry Leave a comment

I feel your loss

I feel it oozing out of your being and devouring you entirely.

My kin,

I know.

Because we,

“We loved with a love that was more than love.”

Because we,

Donated our hearts, desires, thoughts, and dreams for them.

We surrendered to their tenderness

We surrendered to their compassion

We surrendered to our love for their love and so

we gave it all up to keep them.

It was never going to be enough and we knew that

But it was always worth trying.

Our now hollow bodies have lost both them, and ourselves.

I know how it is

to tell me of your sleepless nights in hospital rooms;

to tell me of your atrophy

And I feel you, blood.

I feel your words echoing on my insides.

I feel you because I too have lost

I too have had to build myself up.

I continue to cement together the atoms that make me up.

Inch upon inch I am now glued together in a mosaic of destruction

just waiting to collapse,

expecting the ultimate defeat.

You speak of his good deeds and

I wish to speak of hers, too.

I mourn for her with her every inhale and exhale.

I mourn for her every time I take a look at her smiling face.

I mourn for her even as she’s mouthing me the words

“I love you.”

Mountain by Hawra’a Khalfan

By Posted in Hawra'a Khalfan, Mountain, Prose Leave a comment

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 →

Sciamachy by Hawra’a Khalfan

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Sci·am·a·chy noun [sahy-am–uh-kee]: an act or instance of fighting a shadow or an imaginary enemy.

I looked down at my trampled ribs

at my sliced, flattened, and beaten carcass.

It was once mine but now belongs to the edifice.

“There is only one way out.”

Sanity remains in the sanitarium,

as sanity may enter, but never leave.

Those imagined days- finally ending in triumph!

Waves of sorrow came and passed.

Shadows of the late visited

and crushed my timeworn mind.

Together we drifted into the beast,

and jumped out of my blood.

Voicelessly calling out

for it.

“There is only one way out.”

Staring up at the hoary walls in this crumbling ruin,

with my veins still blasting at full speed,

as the blood whispered out of me and then,

and then my mortal breath escaped.

“There was only one way out.”

I have been waiting so long for this.

My eternity has finally expired.

I have been waiting so long for this.

Rainfall erupted out of my otherworldly eyes in

the darkness of the *skia,

as the fatigued spirit came out of the *makhe;

finally alive,

and finally in shelter.

*skia: shadow/shade

*makhe: battle

Waves by Hawra’a Khalfan

By Posted in Hawra'a Khalfan, Waves 1 Comment

Chocolate! Everywhere! For miles all he could see was chocolate, and his eyes bulged out as if they were going to escape their sockets; Kit Kat, Aero, Flake, Galaxy, Milky Way, Bueno, M&M’s, and oh! so many Maltesers. He picked up one of the Maltesers packets, pried it open with his teeth, and raised it up to empty the whole bag into his mouth. Before he could even take a bite, he heard a faint voice calling his name, “Abdulrahman.”

 

“Abdulrahman!”

 

“Abdulrahman!” It kept getting louder and louder and all he wanted to do was to just chew on the chocolaty goodness that already filled up his mouth.

 

“ABDULRAHMAN!” He felt an invisible palm slap his face so hard that it caused all the small chocolates to come shooting out of his mouth like bullets.

 

He opened my eyes, and here he was, back again, to this reality- this dreadful reality. “Ugh,” he forced his eyes shut and could still see all the chocolate that was waiting for him. He forced them shut with even more energy, focusing all his power on going back to sleep. I can do this, I can go back to it! He focused. Why can’t I go back! Nope, I got nothing. Fine, I’m up but I am so angry at Mama. Why would she wake me up like that! At least I could have taken one bite of the chocolate if she didn’t hit me.

 

“I know you’re awake. Get up right now! Uncle Lothan is picking you up in 5 minutes to take you to work.”

 

“But Mama, I really don’t feel good today,” I knew this is a battle I was going to lose, but it was worth a try, anyway.

 

“Abdulrahman. If you do not get out of bed this instant you will make me slap you again, and I will not be gentle this time! Up. Now!”

 

He sighed, and said nothing else to her. I know we need this money, but I just really want one day off. I just really want to go back to sleep. Knowing that there was nothing else to be said or done, he jumped out of his bed and rushed to the bathroom. His mother always stressed the fact that him and his little brothers must use as little toothpaste as possible- to preserve it. He knew that if he was caught using more toothpaste than he needed, it’ll lead to a beating- but today his mother melted his chocolate world, so he couldn’t care less what the consequences might be. He went on to create a small mountain of toothpaste on his toothbrush as payback, it has so much flavor, it burns but it feels good, he brushed his teeth with a smile on his face.

 

He aligned his palm in front of his mouth and blew out a slow puff of air and inhaled it quickly to be able to smell his fresh breath. He now must be careful with his breath. If his mother got a whiff of how nice it smells, he is definitely get a beating later on tonight. Making sure to keep his mouth closed, he went to his bedroom to pick up the banana his mother always leaves on his bedside table for breakfast, and headed outside the house.

 

He looked at his banana and focused on the brown parts, pretending they were chocolate as he guzzled it up while walking to look for his uncle’s car. Uncle Lothan is sooooooooo rich! He thought, Mama said that his Corolla cost sooooooooo much money! And that he’s sooooooo lucky that he got to marry a Kuwaiti woman. Mama says we should be Kuwaiti. I know we aren’t Kuwaiti because they don’t pay to see the doctor like we do. I don’t know what we are. We live in Kuwait, doesn’t that make us Kuwaiti? I don’t know. Maybe Baba knew how to be Kuwaiti. Mama said that Baba died from Saddam. Since Saddam killed Baba, Baba couldn’t tell Mama the secret of how to be Kuwaiti and it died with him. Maybe even Saddam wanted to be Kuwaiti and that’s why he killed Baba! To get the secret! I bet Baba was strong. I am sure he killed so many men! Mama is too busy and angry to try and make us Kuwaiti anyway. I hate Mama, she is always sad and angry, and all she cares about is making sure we make money so Nasser doesn’t die. It’s not my fault Nasser has cancer, is it? I wish Baba was alive. Baba would give me chocolate, I’m sure! Maybe one day I will be like Baba and I will know how to become Kuwaiti, then I will make Nasser Kuwaiti and his cancer will go away! Where is Uncle Lothan anyway? He isn’t even here yet, she really didn’t have to wake me up so early and ruin my dream. I really want chocolate. Where is Uncle Lothan? He’s never late. Today is going to be different because he is late.

 

His train of thought came to a halt when he saw his uncle’s shiny new silver Corolla park next to him. “Hi Uncle Lo!” He said, giving him a toothful smile. “Where are we going today?”

 

“We’re going to Salmiya.”

 

“Ugh,” Abdulrahman hated working in Salmiya. The people were so rude and the cars went by so fast. “Can we at least go to the one near the supermarket? The bathroom will be close by.”

 

“Sure, son. Now look in the back, you need to sell thirty lights today. Can you do that?”

 

“It’s really hard to sell that many in Salmiya,” he looked at his uncle with a frown on his face. “They never want to buy them!”

 

“Just try.”

 

“Ok.” The rest of the car ride was spent in complete and utter silence. Salmiya. People pass red lights all the time in Salmiya. I don’t know why they don’t see me. It’s as if I don’t exist. They only see me when I knock on their car windows. And even then, they brush me off because they don’t want lights. Some people are nice though, they give me extra money, and they don’t even take a light! They just give me it, I don’t know why they don’t want the lights. It’s shiny! I wish they saw me. But to them, I’m part of the street. Maybe they got used to seeing kids like me.

 

It was now ten o’clock in the morning and it took them two hours to reach the traffic light. “I will come pick you up by this same traffic light at 11 o’clock at night. Here is half a dinar, go to the supermarket when you get hungry and buy yourself something to eat.”

 

Abdulrahman stopped listening to him as soon as he saw the money, his mind got preoccupied with all the chocolate he could buy. He gave his uncle a hug for being so generous and went to pick up the lights from the back seat. Should I go buy the chocolate now or keep it for later? If I buy all of it now it will melt in my pocket. So maybe I should just buy one chocolate now. Hmmm, which one do I want? He thought back to his dream and knew exactly what he wanted to buy, Maltesers! Waves of excitement hit him so hard, I knew today would be different! I knew it!

 

His uncle would get him in trouble if he knew that he was going to go buy the chocolate now instead of waiting. So he stood in place just long enough for his uncle to be gone while waving good-bye to him. He quickly looked at the traffic light to confirm that it is red and began to cross the wide street. His mouth watered as he thought about how full he was going to be in a matter of minutes, so he started walking a little faster.

 

The next thing he could hear was a car horn blasting loudly, but Abdulrahman had gotten very used to being honked at during the past year. Why is the car horn getting louder? Is the car getting closer? He looked to his right as quickly as he could but all he was faced with were the headlights of an SUV.

 

Abdulrahman Mit’eb, 8 years old, was pronounced dead on the scene.

“War is peace; Freedom is slavery; Ignorance is strength” by Hawra’a Khalfan and Quamar Al-Mumin

By Posted in Collaborations, Hawra'a Khalfan, Prose, Quamar Al-Mumin Leave a comment

War is peace.

 

“Abu Osman, trust me on this- people implode when you control them. It is only human nature,” her mother pleaded as she watched her husband explode with rage. I can’t believe this, I can’t believe this. I CAN’T FUCKING BELIEVE THIS. Is he actually putting up a fight? Seriously? There is no logic behind anything he is saying. What does he mean women shouldn’t drive? ALL women shouldn’t drive? Yeah. Sure. Like he would be where he is without the women in his life. He is a fucking tyrant. All I want to do is depend on myself. All I want to do is be able to take my life into my own hands. He of all people should realize that. Aggravating little shitty tyrant.

“Baba, this isn’t fair” I looked at him as my eyes filled with tears. “Osman turned eighteen last week and he already has his drivers license? What reasons are there that I as a twenty-one year old can’t drive, but Osman can?”

 

Her father looked at her tearful eyes, the wrinkles on his face got deeper and deeper as his snarky smile erupted. “Because your father said so. Osman is now a man and doesn’t need me to show him right from wrong. But you? You will always need my guidance.”

 

Her mother stepped in, she was starting to get angry but knows better than to raise her voice to Abu Osman. “Honey, just listen to her reasons for wanting to drive. I am advising you to let her do this because people do not take kindly to being restrained. Trust me on this. Trust me, please. Trust me for her sake.”

 

“I have told you a million times, Um Osman! I will not change my mind. This human nature you speak of doesn’t apply to Shurooq. We have raised her well, she has never disobeyed me, what makes you think that she will start at the age of twenty one?”

 

Um Osman closed her eyes, she knew exactly what he would say but she hoped that for an instant he would take in her words and truly listen to them.

 

This isn’t over. “Baba. Can you please just give me a reason as to why I shouldn’t drive? Just convince me? And ‘because I said so’ just isn’t a good enough reason for me, please Baba.” I pulled down my bottom lip as far as it would go and widened my eyes to look up at him.

 

“Well, for starters- how will I know where you are at every moment?” He gave a disapproving look. “You think I will let my daughter out in the streets ALONE?!”

 

“You know Baba, I can always send you a whatsapp location of wherever I am? There is no other way to send the location other than from the spot you’re in!” I lied. Finally, dad’s technologically challenged self is good for something!

 

“Men will still harass you in the streets, what will you do then?”

 

“Erm, well- I can call you or Osman to come bail me out of these situations because there is absolutely no way I can fend for myself.”

 

“Okay but you are a girl, you’ll definitely have many car accidents, what then?”

 

“Yeah I know I know, we’re terrible, but! How about you get the car fully insured and you won’t have to pay a fils to fix it???” Having to be a misogynist just to be able to get a little freedom around here, the irony.

 

“Shurooq I want you to have all these nice things your friends have, but the only time a girl can start calling herself a woman is when she is married with children. I think it would be better if you didn’t drive yet because who will marry a girl who has this much freedom?” He looked at me with a face full of worry. “Girls with freedom never become women because they are never chosen to be wives. What will happen to you then?”

 

Holy shit that escalated quickly! “Baba, I know that’s way too much freedom, and I am so thankful for it. I assure you, times have changed and a female driver isn’t a bad thing. It shows strength, and stuff.”

 

“And stuff? What stuff?”

 

“Well, you know, I’ll be capable of driving my six children to school and back. You know! Stuff!”

 

He smiled. “You never fail to make me smile, Monkey!” Monkey? That’s new. “I will think more about this problem you have, and will tell you my decision when I have one.”

 

Problem I have? That’s rich. Don’t get my license and it’ll be a problem YOU have. “Thank you, Baba! That’s all I wanted from you!”

 

Freedom is Slavery.

 

The silver gleamed brightly against the light of my room as he held the keys in front of my eager eyes. “You want them?” He asked, knowing the answer. I nodded my head, but kept my mouth shut in fear of saying something that might change his mind. I was scared that even an uneven breath would trigger something that would make him pull away the keys. “You have never disobeyed me before, this should not encourage you to start disobeying me now.” Nod. “This car is a privilege and not a right.” Nod. “You may drive, but under a few circumstances.” Pause. Nod.

 

“The circumstances are as follows, the sun goes down, your car must be already in the garage.”

 

Fair enough, better than not driving at all. There were plenty of fun places to go in the morning and afternoon anyways.

 

“I will have your car shaded to the maximum legal shade so that you will not attract the attention.”

 

I wanted to drive to places and back, I never thought of driving as a way to seek attention. But now that I think about it, it’s the perfect opportunity to check out what all the fuss ‘gizzing’ is about!

 

“No, and I mean absolutely no, music while driving. It will distract you and will summon the devil. There are enough devils already out there driving around, you do not need one in the car!”

 

Now that’s just pathetic. But, whatever.

 

“You are only allowed to look ahead of you, if you really need to look at your side view mirrors, you have exactly half a second to do so, there might be a boy next to you who will assume you are staring at him.”

 

And I swear to God he actually shivered towards the end of that sentence.

 

“Does that sound fair to you?”

 

Nod.

 

Obviously I wasn’t going to complain, I’ve been waiting for this moment for three years. I was not going to ruin it for myself now.

 

“Ah yes, and one last thing. I hired a new nanny who will be your driving companion. You are not allowed to go anywhere without her. If you are in your classes she will wait outside for you. I will be calling her every hour to make sure you are near her and safe.”

 

My eyes widened for about a nanosecond, but I quickly inhaled and forced a smile on my face. “Of course Baba, anything you say Baba.” I could probably pay this ‘driving companion’ to go off somewhere and leave me be. How embarrassing would it be walking around at my age in university with a nanny at my foot.

 

“Good girl, now take these keys and be very careful.” He carefully lowered the keys into my now sweaty palms, smiled at me confidently, and walked out of my room. I finally exhaled and sat on my bed, my eyes glued to the beautiful key to freedom at last. Of at least the closest to freedom I’ll ever have.

 

Ignorance is Strength.

 

It’s been a few months since Shurooq started driving, she followed all the rules religiously and everything was going according to plan. She managed to gain her father’s trust and confidence, while proving to him that driving did not change her life as drastically as he had expected. If anything, it has made his life easier by not having to waste his time driving me back and forth. Tonight, everything was going to change. She mentally prepared for the worst, but expected the best. I’m going to take this risk.  Instead of having to explain to explain to her father that it is her friend Sarah’s birthday party, she is just going to throw a few white lies his way. A mixed birthday party. All she had to do was convince her dad that she had to go to a tutoring session at university and that would buy her about two hours of freedom past sunset. More than enough to dance with a handsome stranger. She saved up quite a bit of cash to pay off her driving companion, dropping Marie off at the souq on the way to the party. Flawless plan! Nothing can go wrong.

 

Abu Osman was watching the season finale of Arabs Got Talent as he rocked back and forth in disbelief that his favorite person on the show just got voted out. Arab’s Got Talent was his one and only guilty pleasure and he invested a lot of time and energy rooting for the contestants.

 

“Babaaaaaaaa,” Shurooq innocently smiled at her dad with her eyes wide open. “I’m going to be a little late at university today, don’t forget!” He brushed her off as he motioned for her to be quiet. She took this as a good sign and tip toed out of the house, Marie, her nanny was already waiting for her in the car with the engine running.

 

“Marie, don’t forget! Keep watching your phone in case anything happens. If Baba calls- don’t answer the phone and call me as soon as he hangs up and I will pick you up. I will only be gone for two hours so be at the door waiting for me at exactly 8pm. OK??”

 

Everything went smoothly for Shurooq that night, she met a handsome stranger named Qutaiba who turned out to be a terrible dancer, but she couldn’t care less because at that moment in her life she knew that she could do whatever she wanted, and her family’s ignorance would be her bliss.

 

Noah by Hawra’a Khalfan

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In order to understand this, you must first learn who Noah really is.

You will find it here, and when you see it beside this piece of paper your instinct will tell you to check for a pulse. There won’t be a pulse. You will realize that quickly but you will still reach in and try to find one. Your next instinct will be that of any other “civilized” human being. Like clockwork you will call the government officials to come and rid world of it. This letter will make it easier for them. This letter will do their job for them.

Nobody will claim it. Nobody will even know the name of the person who lived in the shell that was left behind.

Nobody will realize that I am gone. I haven’t made a difference. I am nobody, and this nobody has done nothing.

I am pouring all my thoughts at this very moment on this piece of paper because I want to have one last human interaction. Ironically, this human interaction will take place after I am gone. I still want to show the world how it feels. I still want to share it all with somebody. I want to tell them why.  I want to tell them why.

In movies, or television shows, or even in books- the note that is left behind normally just reeks of regret. I regret nothing. I merely have an explanation. This, is why;

I have a name, but not even the people I work with know it. I am Noah. Noah, the unsettling man who lives in the basement under the lobby at the Scythe Motel.  Noah, the man who will not be forgotten, as he was never remembered. I am Noah, and I am forty-nine years old.

I am Noah, a forty-nine year old man who had many dreams. I am Noah, the forty-nine year old man who managed to shatter any flicker of hope he ever had.

This body I leave behind will burden you, and for that I apologize. I have never stopped to ask your name, valued janitor. Nevertheless, you and I will have had the most human connection of all. You and I will have shared Death.

Nobody will claim this body or come to it’s funeral. I feel as though I should put down my reasons and last thoughts on this paper as I have never dared to share myself with another, before this.

You see, I was going to be an English teacher, yet the world moved on a pace different than mine. I knew I had everything it takes to become the teacher I wanted to be. I wanted to make a difference, but that was not in my fate. Stating that I merely wanted it, is not good enough on it’s own. But I did- I wanted all of it.

The funny thing about goals is that if you loose track of your most important one, it is nothing but a downwards spiral from there. I ended up working as a security guard in a school nearby, and that is how I met Marrian. Marrian grew and sold wheat grass down on a farm with her mother, and every Saturday she would come to the school and drop off some wheatgrass for the upcoming week to be used in the cafeteria. Marrian was a godsend. She was it- the woman of my dreams and I was convinced that I would never find another woman who was as kind, or beautiful. She was a simple girl but had the most infuriating sense of humor (which was my favorite thing about her). I wish I told her. I wish I told her. I wish I told her of my love for her, but wishes don’t mean a thing anymore, and this is not a letter of regret. This will not be turned into a letter of regret but of hope-

Marrian, you have been gone a long time, but I will join you now. I have thought of you so often. There is never a moment when you are not on my mind. There is never a moment when what we could have been was not on my mind.

I don’t remember much after Marrian’s death, the routine was slowly attacking my brain cells one by one and I went with it. I did not want to think of anything but her. I could not think of anything but her.

I later found myself working at a place much like a slaughterhouse. My job was to announce which ‘fresh meat’ was going to come up on stage.  I was told that the women I work with are beautiful, but I could not see their beauty. I constantly looked for it- but all these men came to the slaughterhouse and left it reeking of fresh meat. I could not see beyond the actions of these men and women to be able to take in their physical beauty. I did not understand the whole system, I merely went there to be able to make money, and to survive.

Survival was important to me, and I have survived long enough. How marvelous is it how much a human being can change given some time?

Today, I can say that I am a man who has been dying slowly for twelve years. I will no longer waste oxygen. I will rid you all of me. Today, I can happily say;

I am gone.

“But Daddy I Love Him” by Hawra’a Khalfan

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She looks up at the Grey skies and wishes upon a cloud.

Her mind shuffles through memories of her throughout the years wishing upon multiple stars, she had wished on those spheres of fire with such belief that they would somehow align and help one of her dreams come true. But now she has retired from these useless fire breathing rocks- she knows better than to repeat that series of mistakes again. It took years for her to give up on those stars, and now the clouds are her allies.

The clouds will make her dreams come true. All she wants to do is speak to him one last time.

I miss him- she told the depressingly dark water vapor which seemed to be hovering over her everywhere she went. I wish he hadn’t gone. I wish he was here. I want him to be here. I want to feel his skin. Raincloud, do you hear me? I know it isn’t possible to bring back the remnants of him. Is he nearby? To her utter astonishment the clouds responded instantly and cried with her. They wept and wept and the droplets that seeped from the skies hugged every surface on her body. She felt the warmth of a mothers embrace oozing through her pores. He is nearby, isn’t he? I can feel his presence, the timeless satisfactory tyranny of his very being near mine. The darkness bleeds one raindrop of hope at a time for her, and every drop is bliss. This cloud, is he above? Is he touching me through this rain? Or am I trapped within an illusion of his exquisite downpour?

 

She sat as still as a statue, mourning the death of them. The unrealistic notion of what they would have been.

She looked up at her new group of faint supporters.

I would have fought for us.

I saw us

Years from now

I saw our life

I thought we would be.

I thought we would live

side by side.

I would have fought for us.

Run miles

Climbed mountains

and all those other ridiculous

love struck promises.

I would have fought for us

I would have had that ridiculous

“But daddy I love him” fight

for you.

I would have singled out my family

I would have given it all

to you

unconditionally.

I miss you.

Smoke by Hawra’a Khalfan

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As soon as I opened the car door, the crisp, dry, cold air slapped my face—triggering me to stand frozen in my place. “Thanks!” I forced a smile, waving goodbye to the cab driver as I stood outside the yellow car. Everything around me was covered in white, and at that moment time did not exist. The only thing that existed is the amount of steps it would take for me to walk indoors. Oh! How I love the way the snowflakes sparkle from afar. I locked my eyes on my target as I took a deep breath of callous oxygen. There it is, the blue building filled with an infinite number of Angels of Death. There it is, the blue building filled with sorrow and regret, where loathing and unconditional love finally meet in an equilibrium.

I took my time while making my way to those haunted E.R. doors, trying to prolong the inevitable. Despite the gloomy atmosphere in this building, and every other one of it’s kind, the one thing that reminds me of the desolation that takes place here is the smell. The smell that took over huge chunks of my life, the smell that left holes of worry in my heart, the smell that acts as a cloud of suffocating smoke which enters my lungs and reminds every atom in my body that things will never get any better than this. Finally, I walked into the hospital doors and the smell slapped me harder than the icy wind had. The cold, for that brief moment, was my safe haven from my broken reality. Finally, when I had no reason to enter this blue building any longer, this smell enveloped my whole life and wherever I went, it was in a hue of smoke around me, making it impossible to move on.

The warmth in the hospital hallway had started to make me uneasy and I started considering running back to the welcoming cold. I turned my neck slowly to be able to take in all the faces around me. All of them had the same look in their eyes; they looked as terrified as I felt. All of these people ended up in the same place on the same day at the same time; all of them had something unfortunate happening in their lives. “They were all afraid of being in my shoes,” I whispered to myself. As that thought stormed into my mind like an avalanche, I grew more aware of the mountain of tears that was about to erupt onto my cheeks. I will not cry. I will not give anybody something to look at. I will hold it all back. I. will. not. cry. I started envisioning the same cloud that holds me tight, gripping them as it does me; from every angle. I no longer inhale oxygen as I have given myself fully to my new restraint. The simplest task such as taking another step forward or merely pressing the elevator button vacuumed all of my energy away- I knew what was waiting for me on the other side. I know of the sorrow that awaits; the grief that will soon unveil itself the second I walk into that room. I know the hardship I will have to face; the regret I will feel for the moments I can no longer change.

I know what is to come.

I made my way to the room, taking the smallest steps possible towards the moment I will not forget for the rest of my life. It isn’t true unless I see it. The doctor got a glimpse of me and rushed toward me with her arms ready to hold mine.

“We did everything we could.”

“I know.”

Revolution by Hawra’a Khalfan

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By Hawra’a Khalfan

Intellectual desires are cravings of the heart

Every character has sought nothing but tangible objects

Materialism has killed our intellectual dreamland

Individualism has massacred our ideas and thoughts.

In the absence of all that we touch, what have we other than our minds?

Feed your mind with intellect and unmask the reality you may foresee

Let words wonder in your brain,

Inspire to be inspired,

Use your words, intellect, and knowledge

Make use of that mind

In the absence of all that you touch,

it is the only real thing that once fed, the feeder doesn’t lose a fils.

Invest in your mind, invest in your knowledge, and invest in the truth.

Have your own revolution against the tangible,

invest in your soul-

invest in your life.

(*fils = smallest form of currency in Kuwait)

Glass by Hawra’a Khalfan

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By Hawra’a Khalfan

 

 

“You are beautiful

Your bronze skin

That dark hair

and those full eyebrows.

Body shaped like an hourglass.

Every inch of you is beautiful.

Worldwide they speak of the beauty of Arab women

You are what they would call ‘exotic’ looking”

He asked me to cover my body but was kind enough to let my hands and face breathe.

He asked me to cover my body because it might otherwise catch the eye,

Wear dull colors, and oversized clothes to shield your form.

Yes, daddy.

Speak softly and never reveal your voice!

Certainly, dad.

Keep your gaze low and not to lock eyes with a man

Of course, father.

You may not go to Medical school, it doesn’t matter that your grades are high. How will you be able to be a mother and a wife if your youth is stolen by this ambition?

But, father? What if I wasn’t born to be a wife?

Are you being disobedient to me?

No, Master. As you please, Master.

Even at the end, when I managed to do all of the above

One day my filthy husband decided one prized possession was not enough.

Seven children I brought to the world yet our life together was not satisfying anymore.

She walked in thinking she was a princess.

The poor girl does not know what’s coming.

Days go by and the cycle repeats itself.

I went to visit the first captain of my soul,

Utterly filled with resentment and pain

“I will never forgive you, father,”

I yelled as I cast off all the layers I was wearing.

“My youth, gone! I showed promise, but that’s shattered like glass. My goals? Diminished into an uncountable amount of pieces? Why? Answer me father!”

He looked up at me with a smile,

“What you don’t understand, dear daughter is that you broke enough rules thinking your dreams mattered. You are a mother of seven and a doctor’s wife, why are you ungrateful? What more could you want of life?”

Secret by Hawra’a Khalfan

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By Hawra’a Khalfan

I smoke my cigarette in a corner in the bathroom; God forbid my father smells the scent. I mean he did smoke for 22 years—but his daughter, suckling on tobacco until it turns to ashes?

No. Not okay. Never okay.

I imagine the conversation I’d have with him if he ever found out, “I can’t trust you anymore!” He would yell. “I don’t need your trust, father. I am an adult, and it was my conscious decision to smoke!” I would respond eagerly.

Eager. Hmm. I mean, what is a cigarette at the end of the day? Some would say it is cancer. It is death. It is suicide.

Why does a man have the option to commit this slow paced suicide by inhaling this foul smoke but a mere woman cannot make this decision?

Then they ask me why I claim Feminism is a way of life, it is a struggle to survive, it is a fight for freedom.

I quickly put my cigarette out when I hear footsteps passing by my bathroom door. Did he smell it? I light a candle and open the bathroom window quickly and freeze, listening with every fiber of my being. Trying to figure out if he was now going to try to diminish my future because of my very slow suicidal tendencies. If he would try to diminish my future, over a silver and blue pack of secrets.