till death do us part

Today would've been my parents' 30th wedding anniversary.
And I would like to honor that by writing about them in today's post. It makes sense: I write about relationships, and to me, they had the best kind of romantic relationship you could wish to have. It's true, I will never know if they would have stayed together had my mother not passed away, but it doesn't matter because it didn't happen.
So here's their story.

30 years ago like today, my parents stood in front of a mayor in Cyprus, and exchanged vows. They had a civil wedding because she was Sunni and he was Catholic, and Lebanon didn't allow that in 1984. It still doesn't.

It took a while before they got to exchange those vows. The first time my father saw my mother, he was 17, she was 18. He spotted her in front of a school, looked at her and thought: "this woman will be my wife." That's what he says anyway --but it's so cosmically romantic that I want to believe him. They only met several years later, through a friend in common, and started dating. They dated for 7 years before they got married. It was during the Lebanese civil war, Christians and Muslims were killing each other, and they were in love. You can imagine how my grandparents felt about their relationship. And so they left each other a few times, trying to comply with society's wishes... but they always got back. I once found a letter from my father to my mother, written during one of those times. He wrote "If you're not in my life, my life will never be complete. You are the one. There is nothing else I want."
It may seem futile --anyone can write these words. But do they? 

But the truth is, although beginnings are very important, the real test of love, I think, is what happens with time. A lot of couples start out madly in love, can't-live-without-each-other passion and whatnot. But they don't all stand the test of time. To me, the greatest proof of love are my parents. Not everyone can say that --in fact, many people around me would say the exact opposite. Our generation's phobia of commitment obviously comes from their parents' examples. And my hope for love obviously comes from mine.

13 years ago like today, my parents celebrated their last anniversary together. My mom had a brain tumor, lung cancer, and liver cancer; she had three months left to live; but she wanted to celebrate. She knew it would be the last time. She made me her accomplice. She rented a hotel room which we decorated with rose petals and balloons. She took my father for dinner at the hotel, and had the waiter bring the room key in stead of the check. My father blushed as if he was 18 years old. And it was just like when they were.

You know it's love when a man still wears his wedding ring 13 years after his wife died --and wears hers on a chain around his neck. You know it's love when even "till death do us part," doesn't.

{first published on the 21st of February 2010 on Beirut Rhapsodies)

awakening the past

This is another excerpt from my novel

I just spoke to my aunt Mona for 45 minutes. This whole research into their lives, my mother, my grandmothers, it’s making me shake up all these memories for everyone. Stories they haven’t thought of in years. And it’s funny the things you remember about someone. She was my mother’s older sister, and they slept in the same room for over 20 years. When I told her I wanted to talk to her about some stories for my book, she made a list of all the stories she wanted to share with me. And she just spent 45 minutes telling me those stories and I just felt so much closer to my mother for a moment –l guess you do live on in the memories people have of you.

“Your mother was so messy,” she tells me, which makes me smile because I am too. “She’d keep all her clothes on the bed because she couldn’t be bothered to put them in the cupboard. She had so many clothes on the bed she had to come sleep in mine! She would just shove things in the closet and close the door so that they wouldn’t fall out.” I laugh. That kind of sounds like me. And my sister for that matter.

She also told me about this man, Rene, who used to live in New York at the same time as my grandparents, in the late 40s, early 50s. She says he still sends her a Christmas card every year, and that I should call him to see if he has any stories about them for me. I get very excited about the prospect of talking to someone who would’ve been my grandmother age, 90 years old. Mona pulls out her address book. “We don’t use these address books anymore,” she says. “I only open this once or twice a year now.” I love that she still has an address book. I think of the one my mother had, it’s still by the phone in our house in Beirut. Like that’s its eternal resting place.

Mona finds Rene’s number, in Jupiter Florida. She says his wife’s name is Karen and she’s really nice, I should just call them. So I do. I don’t really think about it too much, I just dial the number and call up this 90 year old man who was friends with my grandparents 65 years ago. My heart is beating fast and I’m feeling a little shy but I do it anyway. He’s 90 years old after all.

A woman answers the phone. I’m going to take a guess and say it’s his wife.

“Hello,” I say. “Is this Karen?”

“Yes it is!” She does sounds very sweet, so I just go for it.

“This is going to sound a little strange, but I am Husni and Farida Halabi’s granddaughter. Do you remember them?”

“Ah! Yes, I do remember them! My husband must remember for sure!”

“My aunt Mona gave me your telephone number.” I explain.

I can hear her telling her husband “it’s Husni and Farida’s granddaughter.”

I imagine how surprised he must be feeling.

She passes me onto her husband.

“Hello?” he doesn’t sound like he’s 90 years old. And he also sounds very sweet.

“Hello! My name is Yasmina, I am the daughter of Ryma, she was Husni and Farida’s daughter.”

“Ah yes of course. How do you spell your name?”

I want to laugh. “Y-A-S-M-I-N-A”

“What a beautiful name!”

“Thank you! My aunt Mona gave me your phone number. You see I’m writing a book and I’m using my grandparents’ stories when they lived in New York, and I was wondering if maybe you’d have some stories for me!”

“Ah, you know, I don’t think I have any stories that would be interesting for your book,” he says. “It was such a long time ago, I don’t even remember what happened yesterday. You know, I turned 90 in October.”

I’m a little disappointed –I was hoping he would tell me an incredible story nobody knew. I insist a little more, but he doesn’t say much.

“I loved them very very much,” is the most I get out of him.

“Well, in any case, it was really nice talking to you,” I say, and I mean it. And for whatever reason, I feel like I made a new, odd connection with my grandparents' past. 

He seems happy about my call too. And I can’t help but think that maybe, just maybe, my grandparents are somewhere where they can see this happening, and it made them smile too.

if we were all just a bit more honest

If this week has taught me anything, it's that if every one of us would just be a little more honest, maybe we could have hope for our country after all.

But as long as we all act like the hypocrites that run our government (yes, please pat yourselves on the back for forming a government after 11 months, great job guys) --meaning, as long as we just all talk in stead of doing something about it, then nothing is going to change.

Some of us are angry because we are still shocked by nudity. Some of us are outraged that the only thing that catches our attention these days comes in naked form, but not all of us are honest enough to admit that it caught our attention to. You can't deny it. And you know what, if a naked photo-shoot is what we need to make some change, than why not. Nothing else seemed to have worked so far. And even if it fails, at least they're trying. That's more than I can say about almost everyone. It's so easy, so easy to write a perfectly witty status on Facebook after you've had the time to assess the entire situation and decided to take a stand behind your computer screen. And then if doesn't get that much attention (i.e. not enough people thought it was that witty, you can just delete it and it'll be like you never said it).

So how about we all acknowledge that we don't know what the perfect solution is, but we are willing to try and accept that other people will want to try to, in their own way. So what if people decided that what makes them feel free, what makes them feel like they've taken a stand, is to pose naked. Whatever motivates you, embrace it, and the end will justify the means.

I'm 28 years old. I left my country a few weeks ago, because I am fed-up and disillusioned and I don't have to tell you, you all feel it. But I also don't feel apathetic when I see a movement, any movement that brings us together and starts a conversation. Let's talk about Domestic violence. If Nasawiya isn't sexy enough to grab your attention about this topic, then maybe pretty naked boobs will. Yes, it's very sad that none of us even knew that we had two athletes in Sochi. It's even sadder that we don't know how they get there from their own means, because our government provides them with basically nothing. But here's the thing: we're all talking about it. Whether you're with it, against it, on top of it, peeping behind your closet door and calling it hysteria or using it as an excuse to pose naked, you're talking about it. And if you're not, then you're thinking about it, don't lie.

I did it, and I not because I was looking for an excuse to get naked. I did it because I don't want to just talk about it and never do anything. This is just another way to mobilise people. How many of us are willing to do something we're not comfortable doing? I'm not talking about the models taking their tops off. I'm talking about people who actually find it very difficult to remove their top off and still do it because that is how frustrated they are. Even if people might criticizes you for it. If we keep asking questions: is it the right way, is it not...? Then we're not even trying.

Let's cut the criticism a little and give everyone a chance to try. Let's, maybe, stop talking, and start doing.