There has never been a time, in my life, where I have seen and felt such large-scale depression in the nation (Nation translates to Ummah, run - paranoid- run!).

People seem to be walking about aimlessly with no purpose you can feel that guides them. They are awake, but not awake - it’s almost like being sedated and having your body occupied by someone other than yourself. You seem alive when you are, in reality, not.

The sadness that I feel in my heart and in my family’s hearts is engulfing us all in utter darkness. I cannot seem to be able to smile and mean it, I cannot seem to be able to savour what little food I eat these days (no appetite), and I cannot dismiss the picture of the dead bodies of the Lebanese girls pulled out from under the rubble of the building that Israel shelled in Qana. I try to imagine how it must feel like to carry my own child in my arms when her little chest does not heave anymore, when her bloody mouth is open, when I cannot push her stretched stiff arm to the sides of her body - and I am on the verge of losing my sanity.

Qana is a reminder that Israel is capable of cold blooded murder beyond human imagination, beyond international laws, and beyond us all. The “It was an error” and the “Terrorists were hiding in that place” and the “We are deeply saddened by the loss of innocent lives” clichés are old, they’re so old, Israel. You cannot sell us that any longer. The world and history will tell of the numerous daily murders in Palestine and Lebanon.

Now Israel says that it is not in a hurry to stop this war (Fools you are if you expected anything else from an apartheid state), and now is the time where the emotional build-up on both sides of the conflict will dominate the scene. It’s prelude to greater crises, it is prelude to the tipping point - when the people behind their TV sets cannot take it a second more, where chaos will have the upper hand. You only reap what you sow.

My own life has changed dramatically since the start of this war. Other than my appetite loss and being haunted by pictures of dead Lebanese civilians slaughtered by terror, I am unable to sleep at night properly. I wake up in the morning with a headache, a terrible mood, and I occasionally cry during the day. I may be losing my focus, too. I have noticed that I cannot function as I used to before the Israeli aggression war and often times I have to ask people to repeat what they said because I was not paying attention to what they were saying.

Do you understand what it means to see suffering and killing daily and block your feelings? As I said to a very good friend of mine some days ago, I cannot afford to feel the pain every time I watch people die next door. It would cost me my mind - I am the type of person that identifies with others’ pain physically. This means my imagination relates to what injury I see and I feel it as if I was hurt in the same fashion. That, my friends, - that sort of feeling could have robbed me of my sanity a long time ago had I not blocked it.

But to block it is another problem. I cannot block it totally because I am not made of stone, I feel what my people in Lebanon are feeling and I see what my people in Palestine are going through every day of their lives since the arrival of the early Israeli immigrants to Palestine. I grew up with this - war has always been a theme in my life and in my family’s life. Not feeling anything about it would render me inhuman.

To block your feelings partially creates the conflict between sympathy and self-preservation. You start asking yourself such questions as ” My people are being killed, and I don’t feel their pain. What am I made of?”. You live in torment knowing that, so close to home - way too close to home, people just like you ( a girl just like me) is living in complete injustice while the world watches and gives killers more time to complete their crime.

My family has been showered by blessings lately on so many different levels, but we are numb to all pleasure it seems. The continuous killing of Lebanese civilians has robbed us of any joy we are entitled to taste. I have mixed feelings about this, am I being ungrateful to what I am being blessed with? Then again, how can I enjoy holding a newborn baby in my arms when just the day before I saw the corpse of a Lebanese newborn held up high in a man’s arm announcing that this perfect innocence has lost a father, a mother, then himself?

When has this happened, where has it happened, and gone unpublicized but in Lebanon? Has human life turned so cheap?

There is no justice in this world - I’ll give you that. What is going on alone should make us all consider if we are any different from monsters and if, indeed, we need a sequel for this life. I believe we do, those criminals cannot go unpunished. The day will come when justice shall be established - in this life or the next. Chew on that.

Some three weeks ago or so, right after Italy snatched the FIFA World Cup; I had the following whatchamacallit with a person who works at the company that has me employed. Now you need to imagine the setting of this to be able to understand it; I was alone in the office and working when this person who roots for Brazil stood by the door and said:

X: So… Italy won.
T: Yeah!
X: They didn’t deserve it. Brazil is better. Those Italians don’t know how to play. The Brazilians are world champions.
T: Ok. Then how come they got ousted in the quarterfinals?
X: You know what, we won in 1958, 1962, 1970, 1994, and 2002. All those times, we won.
T: I am not asking you about previous times. I am asking about this 2006 event, why did Brazil get eliminated in the quarterfinals?

X: But we won in 1958, 1962, 1970, 1994, and 2002. Brazil is the best team to ever play; we have the world’s top scorers and legends. Pele, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Kaka, Robinho…
T: I understand. I am asking you a simple question, why aren’t you answering me?
X: You know what; it’s ok if you root for Italy. All girls support Italy because they think the players are cute.

T: This does not even qualify as a discussion.
X: The other day a girl told me she can’t root for Brazil when Ronaldinho looks like a monkey. You’re all alike, rooting for those stupid players.
T: I do not consider this a real discussion because you’re doing all the talking. You are dodging a very simple question and saying all sorts of things that have nothing to do with what I am asking. Why can’t you give me a direct answer? And don’t you think you have girls figured out and do not assume that since I am a girl I root for Italy because the players are cute. You’re calling players “stupid”? Are you listening to yourself?

X: Who does Italy have in the line-up? Huh? Totti? What did he do? Nothing!
Brazil’s game was only 90 minutes long, I will not judge the team based on that. They are world champions.
T: Italy played much more than 90 minutes in most of their games, and they still won.
X: Fine. You know what, my friend and I are going out for lunch and he’s waiting for me. One final question, who’s the best team?
T: Italy.
X: Brazil.
T: I respect your opinion, we don’t have to agree. But you should respect mine as well.
X: Then don’t wear that Italia T-shirt to work ever again.
T: I’m sorry? I will wear whatever I want.
X: Then I will wear a Brazil T-shirt.
T: …!?!

There seem to be a number of goblins making of The Box their playground.

Goblin:This is a general name for an ugly, evil-tempered spirit that likes to cause trouble for humans.

Some corners do not function properly, I am well aware of the fact, and this pleases me little. I must gather my prayer book and the secret potion to exorcise those hideous creatures.

Say, if you don’t pay your exorcist, do you get repossessed?

“Good writing inspires me to write, good dancing inspires me to dance…”

As I search for the one thing, or person, or situation, that may trigger my creative gun to fire a flood of juices and in turn make me ecstatic in an almost lustful fashion, I go through a series of states.

I had this idea, a beautifully well-rounded female of an idea, that I played with in my head and that I made assume different shapes. I enjoyed that first state immensely but, right before I was willing to spill the notion down in virtual ink on a screen, she vanished. I only remembered the title.

Perhaps music will lure her back, I told myself. I played my favorite music and I stretched the title, I probed and dug; “what’s relevant to this title? Why don’t I feel the same tingling as I did when she was here? Why don’t those induced to appear before me now match her not in volume nor in essence?”

Where did she go? Why doesn’t she want to return?

Then I determined I will read pages of a book that may seduce her at a certain line into manifesting herself as she did once. That fat book intimidated me; Tolstoy could not have possibly known War and Peace better than I do these days – dismissed.

TV won’t do, it never did. I’m afraid she may not be immune from the gore as I have become. My skin, thick as an elephant’s, hurts all the more from bruises left by news bulletins.

“Fragile. Handle with care” – that’s what my package said. There was an arrow too: “This side up”.

I placed my fingertips on the keyboard and I promised that I will type and type and type until I reach her but some guests call in and I am interrupted even before I commence. The crowd upstairs sure can conspire miraculously should they desire to, can’t they?

I know she was a philosopher, discussing an aspect of human life based on meditative observations. I know she was deep, at least that’s how she seemed to me, and I know I created her. Yes, I created her and she was mine for a second but she eluded me during a mental orgasm.

She didn’t leave a number. I must create her again.

My quest does not stop. I think maybe if I tidy my room, better the setting, she will emerge. I install a hanging round light above my bed for when I dare to read before I fall into sleep’s embrace, all the while thinking of her, and I arrange things in the room – and rearrange them- as I reckon must find her fancy.

Tired as I am, I turn the laptop off. I cannot stand the sight of it without her spirit; it is dead to me at this point. I put on some Fairouz and turn the main light off, immersing the room in a dim red light that excites the senses, and I rest on the couch.
I envy those who are not inspired. Inspiration is torture if you cannot talk it into your level of appreciation and it’s as if it defies all order and has you abiding by its chaos. I am tempted, time and again, by this trying concept. I am tortured by it and it does not yield to my pleas, never satisfies its suppliant.

Love, inspiration – come back.

Hello everyone. The Box is now back after a long (but enjoyable) journey of learning that involved credit cards, failed orders, databases, and a lot more. I must say I am delighted to welcome you back, and I mean every single one of you - not just the cute ones or those who agree with what I post.

Beh. Enough wisdom already.

مرة أول ما فتت الجامعة عملولنا بعض الناس اجتماع مهم لما كنا سنافر مشان يرشدونا لبعض الأشياء التي ستؤثر على مسيرتنا و تحصيلنا العلمي, و كان فحوى الاجتماع الذي لم يبدأ بالوقت المحدد – عرب يا رسول الله- كالتالي

انت طالب علم, جاي هون تدرس. الك كتابك و بس, أي مظاهرات أو أحزاب أو حركات كلها ما الها داعي. لا تمشوا بمظاهرات مشان ما تفوتوا حالكو و أهاليكو بمشاكل. بس تخلص محاضراتك احمل كتبك و روح علبيت.

I talk to strangers, they sometimes take the word unusual to a whole new level.

There is a good reason some people prefer not to meddle in politics. I have always liked to think I am one of the type but, living where I do, the temptation is almost irresistible. What with the tragedy in Palestine, the war in Lebanon, the reform efforts in Saudi Arabia, the occupation in Iraq, and the subliminal turmoil in Egypt; one can hardly stay clean. Everyone is a political analyst: think of it as the epidemic outbreak of a perverse hobby.

At any rate, I have tried hard not to engage in the dirty business but my latest post seems to have broken the sacred rule. And despite my tried-and-true psychic skills, I am unable to tell if more political taints will appear in The Box. I will try my best; literature is far more an interesting (also rewarding) resort.

In the meantime, there is an interestingly heated discussion going on in the comments section of the previous post ( the largest number of comments to have ever appeared on a single post, we celebrate ::confetti::) and I would like to invite you to take part in it. Express your opinion but kindly pay attention to your choice of words. Let�s communicate.

The war in Lebanon is a bitter wake-up call to moderate thinkers. It is pushing many of them to wonder if the word peace they strongly believed in exists in the Israeli language beyond “shalom”, the letters of the word.

I can’t blame them. You cannot lecture about human rights and democracy then support Israel by saying it is defending itself and expect the minds and hearts of Arabs and Muslims to OK that and move on. What about Lebanon? You go silent and grant more time, to perfect the murder.

Discuss, announce, call on, visit, meet, talk; that’s today’s vocabulary as practised by so-called leaders of the world who seem to me to be only enjoying leading the hordes to watch the dismembered burning corpses of the Lebanese.

The tipping point is very near, ask anyone suffering from similar pessimism to mine and they will tell you that. If anything, as I mentioned, this war has caused many to reconsider their loyalties and trends of thinking and it seems absurd to shrug this dangerous sign away because the whole region will suffer as a consequence.