jeudi 16 juin 2016

#RIP dear uncle

I can't cry someone I haven't grown up or grew older around. I can't cry someone I share lil memos with. I can't cry someone with whom've never been in sorrow, in happiness, someone with whom've fought, laughed and cried. I can't cry someone I only see in occasions for a thinly tiny period of time. I can't feel the loss of that someone's death. I can't feel the emptiness that someone's death left in my heart. All I can is sympathize with whoever lived, laughed, fought, grew old, cried and shared moments with that someone. I can feel their loss because I had once lost a beloved. I can cry their loss and make it my.

lundi 13 juin 2016

A Part-Time Prostitute III

As a food addict, I grew addicted to her tajines. A voice ringing in head, superstitiously, saying: “your mom warned you hundred, thousands of times not to accept food from strangers”. Oh well, here I am all-bread-slice-between-fingers-dipped-down-some-yummy-sauce, a Meknessi tajine to be credible. Mom, we only live once

Our meetings continued and I grew found of her.

She is not as shallow as I suspected she’d be. She is just a woman who's beeing exploring her desires, and enjoying red wine, cigarettes and men. I mean, after all that’s what most men do, right? Sleep with whoever they want, drink as much as they want, wear whatever they want and go wherever they want. The only difference is that women are labeled and classified in accordance with their runabouts, with what they do with their own bodies, what they wear and where they go to. A man exploring his desires and whoring around is seen as a stud and symbol of manhood; slight is the chance he’d be called about it, even in his mother's eyes, he'd be "just a man doing what men do". A woman exploring her desires and whoring around is seen a whore and symbol of rottenness, looseness, unchastity,.... The chance she’d be called about it….. in her mother's eye......

No, am not a feminist. No, I don't call for societal gender equality. I'd rather enjoy gentlemen-ness, definitely. But, I believe in gender equality before Allah. Most of the time, women are classified in accordance with religious standards. Women must cover themselves because religion says so, women should be chaste till marriage because religion says so. Women should not explore their sexual desires because religion says so…… Well, have we forgotten something? Yes, men! Men too should comply with these directives. Men too have private parts to cover. Men too should be chaste till marriage. Men too should not explore their carnal desires because guess what, religion says that too. Will women be the only ones subjected to Allah's punishments? 

In my society, you often hear a man, who screwed every moving thing around him, talking about his future wife, her chastity, innocence, non-experience, about how he should be the first to conquer her, and why a candy exposed to the public is not a whifey matter. Oh yeah, I remember an analogy I heard not long ago depicting a woman’s flower as a ‘lock’, and that if this ‘lock’ can be opened by any key, then this ‘lock’ is useless. But, WHAT ABOUT THE KEY THAT OPENS EVERY LOCK?

……………….To be continued

mercredi 8 juin 2016

A part-time prostitute II

Though living under the same roof, I and her only meet in the evenings given my timetable and her working hours. I honestly didn't have the intention to socialize, neither with her nor with our other flatmates, but well. She often knocked on my door inviting me to share a meal - she is a very good tajine cook - or a glass of tea. Sometimes I refused, sometimes I accepted. She wondered, on my first visit to her room, whether I minded her smoking. I said I didn't as long as we kept the door and window open, I hate it when my hair stinks.

Our talks varied from gossips, to weather forecast, food, shopping, her job, my school. Yes I was curious to know her story but I didn't fish for it, simply because I, I actually don't know. Eventually,  one evening, she deliberately spoke about her origins, her childhood, her friends, about everything. She is from the region of Meknes, orphan and has two brothers, both married, one living in the same city and the other living in another. “I used to live with one of my brother, his wife and their little kid. Things started to go south, I no longer could see eye to eye with his wife. We fought more often. My brother stayed neutral. Fed up as I was, I rented a room of my own. I started working in a shoe factory. The salary is low but I am just fine.” 

Absentmindedly, she continued:“I work from early morning to 4 P.m. At the time I was living with my brother, instead of going home, I used to go to a café, to eat and smoke in peace. I just wanted peace. I didn’t eat with them, I only went there to sleep at night. Yet, I more than helped financially. His wife is ungracious. My brother was aware of what was happening but he kept his mouth shut. That’s all I can say.”

I could tell she is far off to the time when her parents were alive, when she lived under their wings, protected, unharmed, worried about doing the dishes or playing with her friends only. I could tell. Her eyes looked sad and tearful. Her face aged ten years. A puff from a cigarette placed between manicured and polished nails brought her back to the now; Then she would look at my untouched, now-cold tea glass and my half-bitten Moroccan pastry, and make a joke about how I am dishonoring my Sahraoui roots by not drinking the tea.

........................To be continued 

Girls' Union

One week or more, you cannot figure it out, nevermind a calendar
"Better late than never" doesn't apply to this
It's physical, it's emotional, it's psychological, it's every-ical
You hungry, yearning for food with no appetite
Mouth watering over silly things you don't normally enjoy
Eying food like a deprived child in front a candy shop
Foodgasms till you pupils delite, till your eyes shed tears
Mentally disturbed, you emotions overflow and overlap, undecided -ly
You wanna laugh, you wanna cry
You wanna live, you wanna die
You wanna workout, you wanna lay down
Mind, please make up your mind
Showing maniac behaviors, skeptical about your looks
Friends replace mirrors with mirrors ain't around
Friends not minding to be a butt reflection willingly and still
You keep checking and rechecking
You make them check and check
You keep checking, you know damn well it is going to happen
You keep counting, you know damn well it might as it may not happen
Symptoms worsening, near the due day
Waking up, dead tired as if a secret fight club and you don't know it
Waking up, wild awake, wild aroused, wild weird
It is happening, hoping the worst happened while unconscious, sparing you the trouble,
But no, no! whom are you kidding?
It is a bitch and gonna act and be so about it
Making you want what you don't want
Feel what you don't want to feel
Wear what you don't want to wear
Do what you rather don't
Oh well, goose bumps all day long, in hysterical state
Shivers running up and down your corpse, making every single hair stand in ovation for the "bitch"
Head spinning, face shallowing, breath ragging, posture curving, stomach upsetting
Washing sensations of hotness, of coldness, of sickness, of happiness, of weirdness
In you head, a picture of knife stabbing into your walls keeps playing
That's your interpretation of the pain down south
Wondering sometimes if your surroundings would sense the homicide scene down south
Faux-sensation of leaking, melting, flooding, or isn't?
Checking, double-checking, mirror-friends playing
Day 1, day 2,... the worse had happened
Day 3, day 4, die-bitch, till our next meeting