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.

to tinder or not to tinder?

Two weeks in and I have to say, I think there may be a lot of good stories coming up. And that, ladies and gents, is because I have decided to play along the new way to meet people in New York, which is basically all digital. And it's changing so fast I can't keep up.

Last week, I went for dinner with a friend, and she was surprised to find out that I didn't know about the latest on the New York dating scene: Tinder. It's an app, that has sort of revolutionised cyber-dating, because it has millions of users, and tells you if you have Facebook friends in common (which is helpful if you're worried about freaks out there). Also, it's super user friendly and sort of addictive, because you get to check out hundreds of guys just by scrolling, and you X them if you don't like what see. If you do like a guy, you click "like" --and if he likes you back, then you're a match. Which means you can start chatting privately. And so, at dinner with Anna, I downloaded the app and was instantly hooked. In 24 hours, I had conversations going with Jason, 34; Tim, 29; and Jesse, 30. Weird? Definitely. Fun? Yes. And I have date.

It's the sort of thing I would've never thought I'd be doing, but here I am, dating in New York in 2014. And if that involves too much of my smart-phone, I guess it's to be expected.

So back to that date --after a small conversation on Tinder, I decided that Jason, 34, seemed nice enough for me to meet. And interesting enough too. So I said yes, let's go for drinks. I got in cab even though the place we were meeting was 15 min away walking --it's just too cold in New York City. And the cab driver turned out to be this Greek older man who had been to Beirut in 1975 when he was sailor. "You're going to meet your boyfriend?" he asked me. I said no, going on a first date. "No! Not a blind date?" Yes, a blind date, I've never met the guy. "Oh! Thank God I'm not a woman" he says in his greek accent. "I would have to date all these American men!"

I get to Miss Lily's and I look around the room, and I don't see a guy matching his picture. So I text him to let him know I'm here. "I'm here too" he answers. I'm confused. I don't see him. We exchange about 5 texts before we realise we are actually not in the same place. Finally, he walks up behind me: he actually does look like his picture.

But a picture isn't enough. Neither is good conversation, it turns out. I am happy that I actually dared to go on what was basically a blind date that started on a phone app.

I'm experiencing our times, you see --and then using it to write.

this is an excerpt from my book

I wrote this today, for the book I'm working on, and I thought I'd share it here. 

There’s an ad on the side of my Facebook Newsfeed this morning: it says “Be Brave. Write.” Am I being brave? Or am I just running away from the life I don’t want to live? I always hoped my life would be special. As a kid I dreamt of being a very famous actress, the first Lebanese actress to ever win an Oscar. Two Oscars, I would tell my friends. That was my life’s ambition. But it turns out I wasn’t brave enough to try that. I tell myself it’s because my mother died and I was distraught and didn’t want to leave my brother and sister, but maybe that’s just an excuse. I’m not sure what I would do if I had to live through that again. I had these piles of acting-school brochures in my bedroom, because at the time you still ordered brochures to check out colleges. Seems like a lifetime ago. A lifetime when my mom was alive and I was just a teenager with my whole life ahead of me and my dreams still very much alive. Now I’m scared. Terrified actually. I only have enough money to last me a week. Maybe ten days, if I’m very careful. This weekend I’m meeting two different families for prospective babysitting jobs. That’s what I’m looking forward to now, babysitting. Don’t get me wrong, I love kids, but I’m 28-years-old. I have a Masters degree from an Ivy League school. That I got on a Fulbright scholarship. And I choose to leave my job, my country and my family to come write a book about my life. Is that brave? It doesn’t feel brave. I look around me and see all these people who have it figured it out. They have their own apartments, beautifully decorated, like real grownups. It makes me feel so much older. In Lebanon, people live at home with their parents until they get married, so it’s nothing unusual there, but out here I feel like a complete loser. I don’t have any of it figured out. I have absolutely no income and I still haven’t figure out what makes me happy.  Maybe I should go hide out in a mountain in Lebanon, plant fruits and vegetables and write stories from my imagination. Maybe I’m not cut out for that “special” life after all. Maybe I don’t have what it takes to make it. And maybe I can still change that. I can decide to be brave, starting now.

My mother was brave. That much, I’m sure of. So many things about her I question, I wonder if she was actually different than I remember her to be. But I am sure she was the bravest person I know. Sometimes, I wonder about how she chose to fight. She decided not to go through chemo, because it was making her too sick and it wasn’t worth the time we’d be buying. When the doctors found out she had a tumor in her brain, they gave her two weeks to live. But my dad fought like hell. He flew her to Belgium to get her operated on and reduce the tumor and suddenly she had a whole year. But the tumor wasn’t only in her brain. It was a metastasis from cancer in her lungs. And it was bad.

When they flew to Belgium, they told us they were going on vacation. She always wanted to protect us, my mother, not wanting for us to worry at all. I remember how I found out it was all wrong: A woman called at home, asking me about my mother. She asked me how the surgery went. I had no idea what she was talking about, but I started shaking, and hung up the phone. It’s like I knew something about this Belgium trip that happened so quickly right after my mom spent a week in the hospital was a little weird. But I guess I didn’t want to see it. When my mother dropped me off at school that day before she traveled, I barely kissed her goodbye. I thought it was cool we would have the house all to ourselves. And I think about it now and I’m shaking. I didn’t know she was going to have a brain operation that could’ve left her completely paralyzed, lose her memory, or killed her.  I didn’t know. She knew and she didn’t show it for a second. That’s how brave she was.

what my sister wrote

***This post wasn't written by me. My sister, she wrote this today to mark her 24th birthday. And she made my heart swirl with happiness reading it. I'm so proud of the woman she's become.

Look at that,

I wake up this morning smiling,

because yes, I'm like a 6 year old when it comes to my birthday.

Today is my birthday; and i'm 24.

If I'm writing this today it's (I think) because I want to voice out the fact that I love my life.

I stayed in bed this morning, 30 min, it took me 30 min to look back to when I can remember till today.

Yes, I've been through horrible situations,

moments that broke my heart,

moments that took away my childhood,

moments that I carry around with me, every minute, every second of every day.

This last year scared me. May 31st 2013, was the 12th anniversary of my mom's death. 12th. 

That means I was starting on living more than I lived with her.

This is where the countdown stopped. From this moment on I can't say my mom was here for half of my life anymore.

Loosing all of these important people after loosing my mom, broke me, it teared me into pieces,

it broke my family, I felt like everything was crumbling down.

And the more i got older the harder it was, to accept everything,

The more I could see the sadness in Karim's eyes, the more my heart would stop,

The more I could read Yasmina's sadness the more my heart would stop,

The more I could see my father struggling the more my heart would stop.

Getting older I realized I had a job and a place in my family,

I realized that I live for these 3 people and they live for me.

I realized that yes I may just be a dust in the universe,

I am just one person, in a tiny country,

I can't change the world (even though I would love to)

I can't even change what is happening in the country I grew up in, my country.

But I can change their world and they can change mine.

I can make a difference in their life and oh my! they can make a difference in mine.

I look around, and see my father, who gave up his life for his 3 little babies and he did great.

I look around and see my sister, oh this woman, believe me, everything she touches becomes gold.

I look around and see my brother. My soul mate, my evil twin.

I look around and see my friends, these people that I call family, this perfectly dysfunctional family that we chose for ourselves, and I suddenly can't imagine my life without them.

I look around and realize that i don't need to change the world,

I have my own, little perfect world,

and i love it.

You people, thank you for being part of my world, thank you for making my world magic,

I'm 24 years old, and my heart didn't stop.

Instead my heart is really F***ing happy.