February 2000

Tariq, I have been thinking of you and whenever there is a gap in our correspondence, which I respect, I begin to miss you. You have made an impression on my days and when that space is not filled I feel the emptiness. But even the emptiness of you is beautiful. I shall keep our bond pristine and lovely the rest of our lives. Our friendship will be a garden in a city, which I will visit frequently. 
Math class is going well. Can you believe it? 
Gardens on rooftops,
Emil 


I'm glad you loved the poem. I am not easily moved by poetry either. I used to think that poetry was impossible in English, until I found some that I liked. Maybe it comes from our other languages, with their untranslatable flamboyance. 
I miss you too- to the point of excitement when I read your name on the screen. When my messages were downloading I caught a quick glimpse of the subject line- City Garden, and I thought, I wonder who sent that lovely image... and it was you. 
My dear, you will not lose your intoxication and dreaminess. You will have periods of sobriety and wakefulness, though, and you will need those to be able to recognize your other states. 
Clay class is fun with my mother. Yes, it is quite a funny sight, the two of us sitting there making pots and vases with the instructor all to ourselves. Last time a blonde girl came and wanted to work on the wheel immediately. My mom and I looked at each other in disapproval. We whispered about her rush to work on the wheel before she had gotten her hands used to the clay. But then we admired her excitement and encouraged her when her pot collapsed. I am looking forward to the wheel. But it's a commitment. 
It is really cold now, Emil. Snow everywhere. My dad is downstairs alone. I will go play backgammon with him now. 
Love,
Tariq


It is late. It is raining. The heat is on and vents hum. So does the computer. My grandmother is up watching television. I have just come home from the city, from dinner with friends. And too much wine. There was much laughter. Hugs. Kisses for no reason. Even strangers smiled at me. I enjoyed myself. I went only to appease friends who had grown tired of my absences. They complained that I did not make an effort. How could I tell them that I have been fighting my ego and struggling with writing, finishing short stories? How could I tell them that I was arrested once and this still jeopardizes my freedom? They are American and frivolous, and as tender as they are there is always the gap. I do not fall easily into this gap, as I would want, but continue to hop over it. I have become expert at steering myself through crowds. I am happy. I have everything. I have nothing that I want. But I want too much. 
It is late. It rains. I am happy. The food was amazing. I was kissed. I kissed. The city appealed to me. The wine left a stain on my lip. There is so much missing still. The definitions change. 
I feel stronger. I have decided that I am not afraid of anything anymore, that I can overcome anything. I forget this. I want to live always intoxicated. Your e-mails intoxicate me. They make me laugh. They make me think. 
Tariq, let's make a pact. Let's not regret anything. My greatest fear is that one day in the future I will jump out of bed in the middle of the night, from a nightmare, and discover that the awful dream is not really a dream, but my actual life. That I could have done so much more, could have been so much more, but that I held myself back. 
What causes my absences? Fear of disappointment. I fear that if I see my friends too often that I will get to know them too well, too fast, and this will result in the destruction of my ideal image of them. That there will be hard disappointments, realities that surface unexpectedly. I like missing people, so I distance myself. I deny myself. I pace myself. I fast, if you will. I don't like to immerse myself in people as I do in music, food, reading. People I make last. And ultimately, my roller-coaster-relationship with life, my falling in and out of love with it, keeps me distant and moody. 
We live on waves. We are mermen. 
And kisses to you, too,
Emil


Emil, today I found a printed e-mail from my late friend and adviser, Marilyn. I miss her so much. She was the main reason I went back to Ohio State for my PhD. She was smart, compassionate, unpretentious, committed, passionate, and so much more. Working with her was exciting. Finding her e-mail at this moment when I'm preparing to submerge myself again into the PhD really made me realize again how much I miss her. She was 52 when she died of colon cancer. 
I have been feeling very sensitive today, tender. I cry very easily when I'm like this. I realize I have no friends here who really understand me. I have friends, good friends, here who understand parts of me, but no one who understand enough about me to be comforting. 
Strange, this filing and organizing is supposed to make me feel settled, more together. But I have always felt homeless in the sense of not committing to a place- if we couldn't live in Palestine, then I wouldn't betray Palestine by taking up another place as home. Of course, it is not a rational process. It's just in my veins. 
And yet, how can I be with a community that would hate me if they knew I was queer? So, I leave and I look for Palestine in other people's eyes. Kurdish workers I met in Aleppo. Iraqi refugees in Amman. Sudanese refugees in Cairo. And then it all becomes too familiar  and I dream of traveling to China, Vietnam. 
I'm glad I write to you. Usually I feel too tired after working in the study all day, but once I start I find the energy to keep writing. I want to do so much, but how will I find the time and energy? I will have to make choices. How do people get bored?
Salam,
Tariq


You are so precious. Thank you for making me feel and think. 
I can't believe how much we have in common when it comes to being and feeling so chronically overwhelmed by all that we think should be done, said, written, encapsulated in some form. I don't think it takes dedication to succeed, but obsession. It's the animal reality. 
Last time I saw Moe I drove home crying, not because Moe did anything intentionally hurtful, but because he reminded me so much of the American gay culture and men I have grown so tired of- because they are such carbon-copies of each other and catty. I had expected it to be different with Arab gays. I desired the deeper experience, the profound bond, and I had hoped to find it in the Middle Eastern community of gays. But Moe had simply skipped over the vital moments and replaced them with flirtatious glances, frivolous remarks, shrill laughter. So many times I wanted to say something provocative and earnest but I found no one was listening to anyone. People just floated about. Moe's unavailability, as well as Wael's to some extent, made me feel alone again, and inferior. I felt like a woman in the company of straight Arab men and wondered if we have adopted some of those bad habits. 
But I have recovered and want to go to dinner with Moe and Wael again, give them another chance. I want to talk like real people and I want to be taken seriously. I don't want to be manhandled and thrown aside anymore. Do people feel obliged to mistreat me because I look young, or that I am "cute" and cute people are hard to take seriously? I want to go to dinner with my brothers and know that I can feel equal. I want to learn early on in life if queer Middle Eastern men are as horrible as the straight ones, if we have unconsciously adopted the prejudices and caricatures of our straight societies, because after all, we come from them. 
Tariq, tell me I make sense. Not a little, but all the sense in the world. Tell me I'm not looking too deeply but that I have a valid concern on my hands. 
I do know one thing: I am wrong to assume that Middle Eastern men will be better than American gay men. There are no good Arab/Assyrian boys. We are just as fallible as Americans. I have to understand this. I must let go of the ideal image of the ideal person. 
When will I see you, Tariq? 


Emil, what a great way of putting it- like a woman alone among Arab men. I know what you mean. There is a way gay men of all ethnicities perform gayness (which is by definition white gayness) that gets old, feels false, and alienates. I have seen a lot of Arab men doing it. For some it's a phase, performing it as they shed their straight skin, and then suddenly remembering they have their own personality. For others it's an unending nightmare. I usually consider how long one has been out when trying to figure out how long it will last. In other words, you make perfect sense when you say it alienates you. And you make sense in giving them another chance, because with some people once you get past the knowledge of the performance layer you can begin to see other layers struggling to breathe; and with time you will see more. 
As for Wael, his unavailability is probably caution and a desire to avoid messiness, in the sense that he knows that queer Arab/Middle Eastern circles are socially (and sexually!) incestuous. I know he is very fond of you and he had nothing but wonderful things to say about you before I met you. Who wouldn't be very fond of you? 
I want to say ethnicity doesn't matter, but I can't say it without qualifying it. Of course, it doesn't matter. I used to crave the company of queer Arabs so badly and was usually disappointed when I met them, for many of the same reasons you wrote about. Superficiality, materialism, performance-mode, cattiness, etc. I was lucky to meet some wonderful queer Arab women and a few men that I connected with. I think what draws me to queer Arabs is the warmth of Arab culture. 
Can I teach you backgammon when we meet? It was always a mystery to me too. My father never had the patience to teach me. Yet, I was always amazed at men who spent hours and hours playing it, with the sound of the dice, the pieces moving mysteriously, the smoke, the voice of Umm Kulthum over the speakers. So finally, last winter, my friend Aysegul taught me how to play in Istanbul. She beat me all the time, but I learned a lot from her. Then when I got back to Damascus I played with "the guys", regular straight Arab men from the neighborhood where I was staying. I learned a different version, the one men usually play at the coffeehouses. When I got back to Palestine my father refused to play with me, dismissing me with his hand, saying that he doesn't play with amateurs like me. When I finally convinced him to play I realized why. He's brilliant. He knows what move to make before the dice even lands. He counts just by glancing. Anyway, he always kicks my ass. He's very moody about when he'll play, though, and we don't play very often. It's the only thing we do together and it has totally been as a result of my efforts, although I think he enjoys it. He doesn't say much. 
Love,
Tariq


Hello gawwaad (pimp,) I'm all mixed up like a musical composition that's undecided whether it's happy or melancholic. Is it possible to be both things simultaneously in life? I just stood in the kitchen, in the silence of the empty house, and said to myself: You're gonna have to decide now, once and for all, if you're going to live in anger, fear, and regret, or with love and faith in goodness. 
I just have a hard time believing that in life truth always prevails. I am convinced that I will lose, that it doesn't matter how good a person you are- sometimes in life you pay, regardless. It is only in movies that the protagonist wins. In real life innocent people are sent to prison, women are raped, children die of cancer. 
Strength is not a decision. Happiness is not a decision. 
My evening with Wael and Moe was absolutely delightful. I will tell you about it. I got into the city, which was lively, the weather temperate, and already dark. I found parking far far away from Cafe Flore and walked the many blocks wondering what the night would be like. When I walked into the cafe Wael and Moe were already there amid all the men that crowded the small space. Wael looked as cute as a seven-year-old, with the same whimsical tendencies- how his face changes expressions like a child, and Moe looked handsome. I dreaded the moment Moe would disappoint me. 
And he did. There were wisecracks, he said coquettish things and I matched his bantering with shocking retorts. We flirted and Wael joked that he would go home and leave us alone. If it meant flirting to get on Moe's level, to break through, to break the ice, then by God, flirt I would. It was a dangerous method. 
We decided on a restaurant and walked to it. Moe now asked me about being Assyrian and seemed genuinely interested, and when he showed he had the ability to listen and focus I began to warm up to him again. It was at dinner that we really got to move beyond gay superficiality. Moe told us a personal story about his first relationship in the U.S., which was tragic and made me wince. We began to talk more seriously now about other things. The deeper Moe emerged- compassionate, human. Aspects I would like to believe all men possess. When Moe wants to be serious he can be, though this did not help me forget his arrogance and incorrect reference to my age being "less" than his. 
Wael was precious, insouciant. He and Moe talked about a possible trip out of the country and invited me. 'I'm not comfortable leaving the country,' I admitted. "Why?" they both asked. 'Oh, I don't know. I wouldn't want to risk being denied re-entry,' I found myself divulging. "Have you been arrested?" Wael asked with a smirk on his face. I didn't get into the whole story of my youthful errs, I'm so tired of rehashing it in my head. Moe had his own tragic story, similar in some ways. Wael said wistfully that he had no such adventures to speak of, adding, "I have always lived my life avoiding trouble." I wished I had. Having brought up the subject left me saddened and feeling far away from people and things the rest of the night. 
But we went for drinks after dinner and spoke further, and I was able to laugh with them. I met an Egyptian fellow whose accent tickled Wael. I guess something in the Egyptian accent amuses him, though I couldn't tell what! I asked about Umm Kulthum and both Wael and Moe's eyes lit up. The conversation turned to music. We talked about sex too, of course! Wael and I said that we saw no problem in two friends having sex. Moe, on the other hand, disagreed that often this created problems for the parties involved. Then he sat back and acquired a puzzled look about him, "Can I ask you something?" I knew immediately what he was going to ask, 'You want to know if I'm cut or uncut.' Moe was stunned. He doubled over in laughter, "Yes! How did you know?" 'I could just tell by your expression. And I'm not telling you!'
Wael asked if you and I e-mail each other often. Once or twice a week, I told him, about which he seemed surprised. I added, 'We write each other long meaningful e-mails. Tariq is a wonderful human being.' "Tariq is very intelligent," Wael agreed. 
A customer at the restaurant said today that I was "the best waiter". She said that I was thoughtful. Her son agreed. I was deeply moved. She reached out and touched my arm. It is moments like these that are high to me, that make my day complete. This is what I am doing in life right now and I may as well make it more than what it is- put into it breath and heartbeat. Why else do anything? 
I hold you so dear. Know that. Your presence comforts me and I am lucky to know you.


Tariq Al-Amin, I have been reading "The Veil & the Male Elite: A Feminist Interpretation of Women's Rights in Islam" and although I'm not much of an intellectual and the book often loses me I am quite enjoying it, and learning about Islam from a woman's vantage point. Mernissi does not attack the Prophet himself, who seems to have been a sensitive and reasonable man, but rather exposes the misinterpretations of the Hadith by the isnad. I'm amazed by how much respect the Prophet had for his wives and women in general. He often depended on them for advice in political and military matters, and was even human enough to rely on them for emotional sustenance. He even worshiped in her presence, even though she was menstruating! 
Tonight I thought again about what Moe said about sex and friendship, especially while reading about the Prophet's open necessity for sex and intimacy. I had to ask myself: Does a person who does not value sexual intimacy within a relationship, a friendship, not value sex at all? Or does he not value his lover as friend because he may share his bed? 
I really try to stay clear of resolutions like: I don't want to have sex again unless I'm in love with the person. Though, a part of me is just idealistic enough to believe in this. But how realistic is abstinence? 
I have to admit that I have been living with the stupid idea that my life is worth nothing if I am to live as a gay man. Being gay all these years, struggling to make gay fit for me, somehow led me to assume that I would be alone all my life, that the rules that apply to other men and women regarding family do not apply to me. Why shouldn't I strive for a sense of community and family? 
It scares me to know that there is so much holding me back that is unseen. How can I challenge oppression, refute self-hate, if I don't recognize it, identify it, acknowledge it? And why should life, a sovereign right, a natural and sacred gift, be such a constant struggle for some of us? Every move, every day, every feeble attempt, every special breath... 
I will not be held back- by others or myself. I will fear, I will hate, I will fail, I will forget these high moments, but I will overcome, Tariq. 


Today has just been delightful, Tariq. I met Jackie this morning at the rest home after class and we had breakfast with my grandmother. We were both shocked when my grandmother informed us that we had offended a friend of the family the afternoon before by laughing too much in her presence! Can you believe it? The older Assyrian woman, religious at that, has been made uncomfortable by our laughter, and she thought we were laughing at her. We were dumbfounded by the suggestion and thought grandmother was playing with us. Jackie was indignant that a woman she has known for years, with whom she has had many afternoon teas and conversation, would even consider to accuse Jackie of something so puerile. I had to roll my eyes, 'That is so classically Assyrian!' Jackie looked obviously miffed, even hurt, "I have lived my thirty-four years abiding by all the proper codes of Assyrian behavior and have never done anyone wrong. I have always accepted my position in the Assyrian community and in this family. It is time that I lived as I pleased and if I want to laugh I will laugh!" 
I respect my grandmother but I was so upset with her for siding with the lunatic friend, the deeply insecure and pious friend. How dare she incriminate us for laughter, for love, for getting along so well and enjoying each other's company? 
It's not news that Assyrians are serious people, religious, even unhappy people. All our lives we've been uprooted time and again, our very existence challenged and threatened. We are mourners. Anything remotely different is considered rebellious and sacrilegious. Americans are animals in Assyrian eyes- because they have fun, are sexually liberated, and adventurous. 
The immigrant mentality simmers in constant displeasure and guilt, sorrow. It keeps us in a small dark box that we call being Assyrian. 
We are judgmental and critical without a right. We live small insecure lives. Oppressively Christian lives. 
I'll show you family photographs when you come. I have visual proof of just how serious we are. 
Life is meant to be viewed with panoramic vision. 


Yes dear, umm means mother. Your e-mail made me laugh. It's hysterical. We are mourners too, but we are extremists- so we mourn and we laugh in extremes. I have often heard Palestinians compare themselves with Lebanese, noticing how the Lebanese went to the beach during cease-fires during the civil wars. We, on the other hand, cancelled even wedding celebrations during Intifada (Uprising) because it would be disrespectful to celebrate at a time when so many families were mourning loved ones. 
The Lebanese party wherever they are. Palestinians are like Assyrians. 
I remember my mother telling my sisters not to laugh too much. And especially brides, they should not laugh or smile too much! 
Good for you and Jackie to rebel and laugh! Although, brooding is lovely too, but I bet you do enough of that. 
I'm listening to Eartha Kitt sing "Smoke Gets in Your Eyes". Does smoke get in your eyes? 
I read your story "The Necrophile" yesterday morning. I am amazed at the level of insight and ideas in your writing. I think you are asking yourself really intense questions in your writing. They are sometimes tortured, but I don't get the feeling that they are just that: there is always a kind of euphoria and idealism that reflects what I already know of your spirit. There are some gems of language too. You are also an acrobat, performing wild jumps and mid-air spins with language. Part of it is traces of your perfumed Farsi/Assyrian tongue. 
You wonder about building a family, having taken your life less seriously because that didn't seem to be an option. For so long I cringed when I heard people talk about "family" and recreating family, especially the qualities of constancy and loyalty and boundless love and willingness to give to each other, hopefully avoiding the possessiveness and control and projecting unhealthy expectations and limitations. I thought my partner and I had worked out a way to do that. We had figured out how to be together in a loving relationship without possessiveness and control. What we hadn't done well was the polygamous part of love. I think we both had different experiences and needs. 
I want to have a partner or partners, to build together lives, houses, spaces, art, food, children, animals, solar ovens, ceramic pots, gardens, wood furniture, to change the world, to nurture passion in each other, to hold each other on cold nights. And I want to be free to build whatever I want, to travel wherever I want, to experience my body however I want, to have my time apart when I need it- without offending or hurting. 
My friend Vern is town to see the national ice skating championships. He was my first crush when I was a young chick at college. He is a rural Ohio boy, grew up down the street from a cow-crossing sign, across the street from a corn field. Sweet boy. We were roommates in a dorm. He was Catholic, wanted to be a priest. I was Muslim, wanted to corrupt him with my desire. We gave each other massages and felt guilty, but my desire surpassed my guilt. I think his Catholic guilt prevailed over his desire. I went to church with him, which made it all the more exciting. He joined the Peace Corps and I went to DC for grad school. I came out immediately, he took it more slowly, especially since he was on an island in the Pacific with only a handful of people. He came back three years later and eventually came out and is now happily partnered with a man he met in a Catholic gay group. My mother doesn't like him. I think she has a secret scenario in her head of how I was led astray, and it involves him. 
I dream of sunny places. Of Egypt. Austin. California. 
I'll write you more tomorrow.
Love,
Tariq


This is my life. Bottomless. Without walls but possessing glass borders, psychological limitations. A sanguine sky above. This is my secret life. Without I am a student, a waiter, a man. Within I am tempest of fire and song.
I smile, I drive, I listen to music, I smoke, I daydream, I work, I complain, I cry, I love, I forgive, I walk in the rain and the water drips off my hair onto my face, and these are the small moments that remind me I am alive. The smallest moments seem connected to something greater, revelations.
Sometimes I just lean on the kitchen counter and through the window watch it rain in the yard. Everything looks shiny. Small birds hop in the soil where the roses will grow and feed. They don't seem bothered by the rain. The apple tree is bare. The clouds low. The entire neighborhood empty and quiet like a ghost town. And I sigh because I am happy- although I am not where I want to be. Would you like to hear all that I have lost? My faith in goodness; my certainty that justice will be done for the kind-spirited; my innocence; my ignorance; my trust in God; my love for my parents; my self.
What happened? And when did it all happen?
I no longer envision the kiss, the love, the caress, the whisper, the body with the fine hairs, the conversations in the dark, the man himself. All that is left are the holes through which I fall fall fall contemplating.
But I am happy. Genuinely happy.
I have disowned my father, haven't I? There is no desire to reconnect with him. There is nothing to connect on. At times tears well in my eyes because it feels like he has died. The tears well in a tumult of joy and despair. Everything is intermingled now more than before, more intensely than ever!
I am made of marriages of contrasts and opposites. Life is a chapel of contradictions.
Even my sleep has recently been chopped down the middle by a strange wakefulness, moments when I sit up in bed, look about me in the darkness and see objects floating in midair. Then I am satisfied and fall right back to sleep. No fear, no anxiety.
I have learned that nothing is gained without loss. Life is a barter and we are neither winner, nor loser.

My dear, so you want to be a nurse? You would be such a caring, nurturing nurse. Why don't you get your nursing license and move to Austin with me? Just when I think I have decided to move to Austin I think of New York. New York is an amazing place. I always feel so intellectually satisfied and stimulated when I'm there. 
I need to think about financial security and a place to come back to... an Arab house, simple, but with a sunny courtyard, rooms all around, orange and lemon trees, an olive tree, a grape vine, flowers, lots of mint, thyme, green onions growing between the flowers. A small fountain. A workshop. Maybe some power tools for the dyke in me. Where can I afford that except in a place where I can buy land and build myself? That's why California is not an easy option. It's too expensive. My friend Patrice lives in Austin where she teaches at a charter school. She's a radical teacher, her students are "at risk" and have been kicked out of other schools for everything. They are wonderful, they thrive in her hands. I taught them when I was in Austin. I loved them. I could teach with Patrice. 
See what Ohio winters do to me? My fantasy life is keeping me going. 
Love,
Tariq


The moon has rings around it and the rings light the yard. I have had wine with Jackie. Too much. Laughter too. When I was a child my aunt smothered me with kisses, now that we are older she confides in me. Amazing what time does to relationships. Tariq, I can't tell you how awestruck I am by it all. It is essential to hold burials sometimes- to forget and move on, even in anger and dissatisfaction, but to revisit the graves that we create along the way and to celebrate the spirit of youth, of family, of mistake, and of love. I feast on memories... a wind swells under my wings and whispers your name, lifting me up to where I was not meant to be. I see so much clearer from up here. I know so much more. I await your arrival at these dizzying heights. 


Dear Sir or Madam, 
I am writing you with concern to your web page. I am not prejudice, but I feel as though this type of work should not be posted. My twelve year old son ran to me saying "Mom, there are Assyrian gays, and I'll prove it to you". I was so embarrassed. You guys should not post your diaries for people to read. You have no age restrictions posted and it contains some dirty vocabulary. Please do something about this. If not, I WILL!!!
Very truly yours,
Concerned Assyrian


I certainly know that I cannot censor my diary because that would compromise its integrity, deplete its honesty, its queerness and "outness". But I think there ought to be some kind of advisory. Still, I can't help but think that it is the parents' responsibility to monitor what their children do on the Internet and to be available for open dialogue.
My diary is by and for queer youth, though it may be inappropriate for a twelve-year-old. When I was in my teens I would have given anything to know that I was not the only queer Assyrian, alone in my dramas, sadness, and turmoil.
But what is the point of an advisory if the child is left unsupervised, the parent is embarrassed? Can we protect our children from the Internet, films, books, paintings, poems, music videos, playgrounds, the streets, and the varied dynamics that may play out in their own family unit? We can't hide our children from information and we cannot hide information from our children.

Hello, my name is Chris and I would like to thank whoever thought of this idea. Now I know I'm not the only Assyrian out there that's gay! 

Naturally, fluidly I do not love or respect my parents. I try and am grateful for all that they have done: sheltering me, feeding me. But they did not venture beyond their cultural obligations and primitive duties, instead denying me understanding and deeper nurturing as I was made, in turn destroying my being. As a child my mother ridiculed my effeminate characteristics. As a teen she turned me away, denying me support, nourishment, guidance. The essentials. I resent my parents today. I hold them accountable.
This afternoon while I was on the phone with Jackie my mother told me to "grow up and be a man". She accused me of being childlike and silly. I just looked at her, the laughter erased from my lips, and without thinking said to her, 'Fuck you. Fuck you. You're a bitch! That's what you are mother, a bitch. All my life you have been a bitch to me. Fuck you!' I got up from the sofa and left the room, but my rage brought me back and I shouted, 'Who are you to tell me who and how to be? When you've been a good mother then you can tell me what kind of son to be!' My throat still burns from shouting. My head is pounding.
At twenty-six I'm still trying to establish my place with my parents, but am transported to the past, to all the times I fought with them for a hint of acceptance as I am, a shadow of unconditional love. I lived in war and am still scarred from the memory of war, the harrowing images, the obstinate voices, everything easily conjured from the smallest provocation. Now my duty is to painstakingly piece the fragments that have lost their meaning. My throat hurts from the razor words I flung at my own mother. It shouldn't be like this.

Dear Emil, I have been missing you too. Will you visit me in Austin? 
My cousin Salam was kidnapped at gunpoint and forced into the trunk of her car. He drove around with her for an hour, while she was on the cell phone with the police, who tracked her down with satellite technology. There was a high speed chase. Then the car crashed and miraculously she survived with only a few scratches. When I talked to her she was happy and bubbly, only 22 years old, beautiful and innocent. This is the first time she has ever lived away from her parents. She was abducted in the parking lot of their apartment building. I heard her voice on the national news talking to 911. She was so terrified. It still gives me chills and makes me angry and I feel so powerless to protect the women in my life (or the men, for that matter.) I still have not talked to her father, my uncle, because I know we will both cry the moment we hear each others' voices. It's so painful that this happens in a country we call home, away from the imagined safety of an imaginary Palestine, cut off, alienated, threatened with losing more than has already been lost. 
I went to a talk yesterday. Two Israelis, one "progressive", the other a "conservative" nationalist. Both journalists, though the latter is also connected with the right-wing Likud Party. I asked a question about Jewish Nationality Status in the Basic Law of Israel- the law that substitutes for a constitution, which Israel does not have. Are any Israelis willing to give up the discrimination that distinguishes between Jews and non-Jews (Palestinians) in the fundamental definition of citizenship? I asked this of the "leftist" guy but the fascist went ballistic. He shouted and told me that if I didn't like the way it was I should leave "Israel" and go to any of the 22 Arab countries, with whom I have "a lot in common". I told him he was being a racist and that I didn't even ask him to begin with. It was jarring. I was mad at myself for even engaging him, then satisfied that at least I had forced him to show his true colors to everyone else there. The leftist didn't give his own position or say how he as a Jew could live in a state that defines him as a fully-empowered citizen, and the Palestinian natives simply as "non-Jews" in a "Jewish state". Never mind the millions of Palestinians who were driven out completely or who live as occupied subjects in the West Bank and Gaza. Incidents like that remind me how much many Israelis hate us and wish we would just disappear off the face of the earth. 
So, my rage takes me to dreams of land, putting stone upon stone to build a house, planting trees. And when I'm feeling too safe and too domestic I will leave again. I once wrote for Punk Planet Magazine: Departure has always punctuated the grammar of my Palestinian experience.
You know, Assyria and Palestine exist for us in the longing for justice- a longing that has to translate into a creative expression. That's a more interesting place to exist- everywhere- than just on territory. 
Ride out the darkness. You know it will pass. You shouldn't expect to always "get" yourself or trust yourself. We go through periods of volatility and periods of constancy and it will balance out. 
I wanted to send you a poem by Audre Lorde about surviving, but I can't find it. My friend Nuzhat gave it to me once when I was battling demons. I think poetry saved her life. 
Kisses,
Tariq


The day is cool but sunny. I drive on a country road that stretches beyond our neighborhood, where the hills are green this time of year. The clouds are white and fluffy. They remind me of spring. I am smoking a cigarette and listening to music- the windows are all the way down. The road curves playfully. There are horses and cows beyond wooden fences. Peace just beyond my own wooden fences. I cannot believe that I am in Northern America. It is a bitter-sweet location.
Mom and I are not speaking. We are both stubborn. The scars may heal, but the wounds close up on our lips, silencing us. We keep our rage in, we hold our apologies in. But this will pass and we will laugh again.
I weep for the children who are wholesome as I was, but made to feel like abominations. I weep for myself and hate that I have to endure such debilitating self-pity at this age. My mid-twenties are spent trying to piece together the unrecognizable, but familiar fragments of youth, the wholeness that society and family worked together to undo. I am unraveled. I am crippled. I am turned inside out so that I do not recognize myself. My center has been ripped out of me, my heart broken, my confidence challenged to shreds so that I can only depend on the rags of what was once my birthright to be happy, healthy, and worthy. I am a freak, not of nature, but of other's undoing.
Angry, so angry...