December 2007

As the year ends and I look forward to a new year I also want to look back and thank everyone who has been a part of my year.


  • I want to thank some unsung soldiers who helped me realize that I am human and don’t need to be superwoman through discussions, talks and constructive criticism of who I am.
  • I want to thank all my lovely friends for the great times and wonderful parties and events, you all know who you are.
  • I want to thank everyone who helped me adjust to my full time work schedule, even though I still resent it at times 😉
  • I want to thanks my travel buddies throughout the year, great places only made more interesting by you.
  • I want to thank all the shoulders I cried on and arms that held me in my times of need.
  • I want to thank my muse for my inspiration, even in absence.
  • I want to thank my family, despite our dysfunctionality, we are getting there.
  • I want to thank everyone for the cat gifts, despite the fact I am not a cat lady, I would also like to request no more gifts that have any cat motif on them.
  • I want to thank my dietician and doctors, without whom I wouldn’t be a healthier person than I was this time of year last year.
  • I want to thank the 20 kg that I lost for giving up my fun life and dissolving into oblivion. See you in another life J
  • I want to thank all my lovely hosts when I traveled, your hospitality was ever giving.
  • I want to thank all my visitors who stayed with me, your presence was as always enriching
  • I want to thank all the new friends I made for coming into my life.
  • I want to thank all the old friends I had for staying.
  • I want to thank those that have supported me in my decision making, faulty as it may have been and for helping me stay together through it all.
  • I want to thank those that have helped me with my exit strategy, still waiting, but couldn’t have done it without you.
  • I want to thank my boss for the diversity of the projects I work on, and the space to do my work comfortably.
  • I want to thank my work colleagues for making our office a fun and lively environment (never a dull day).
  • I want to thank you for reading this and other posts, I enjoy the feedback.

 Have wonderful conclusion to 2007 and a great 2008.

I used to be a sun worshipper. This was a few years back. I stopped after I had an incident with a mole. Since then I’ve limited my consumption of the sun’s rays. But damn it, there is something so relaxing about just sitting in the sun’s arms for hours. Its one of life’s simple pleasures. 

Our winter has not fully set in. We get brutally cold nights, off set by the lovely winter sun during the day. The sun shines bright and strong, giving warmth when the temperature only wants to drop. In Amman you can find many oases to sit and bask in the warm sun, with a cup of coffee. And that’s what I did yesterday. 

The warmth lulls my mind and body. My muscles loosen and I am in a lovely, calm state of being. I constantly close my eyes and lift my face to the sun, paying homage to its glory. 

I miss worshipping the sun and spending hours soaking in its rays. But my mind tells me no, and this is one battle where my mind will win over my heart.

Today my brother and I decided to go to the museums that are situated at the King Hussein Park. We first walked in to the Royal Automobile Museum, there we spent about an hour and a half walking between polished and gleaming cars that date as far back as the 1930s. The cars present not just a simple history of automobiles but also are an insightful look at Jordanian history. Its is fascinating learning about the royal family, Jordan and cars through these machines and what they represented. The museum is well organized and is self guided with audio, visual, and video supplementary guides. I really enjoyed it.


We then walked to see the Children’s Museum. This was the whole point of the excursion. I was so excited about visiting this museum. I had heard only good things about the Children’s Museum. As we walked up to the counter to get our tickets we were promptly told that we were too old to go in unaccompanied. Yes we need to have a child under 13 to go in to the museum. We were also told that this was a place of learning and we need to have a child who wants to learn to enter.


I couldn’t believe my ears! Yes I am fully aware that it is a Children’s museum, and it is geared towards children, but to exclude adults did not make sense to me. This was the most absurd thing I have ever heard. How can you bar entry to a public place such as a museum, a museum of learning nonetheless solely based on the fact that I am too old. I was in no mood to argue or fuss today and so I just walked away from the place disappointed but if I were to give the Children’s Museum staff a piece of my mind I think I would say something along these lines: This is a public place, a museum. This is a place where education is a top priority; this should be accessible to everyone of any age, background, or gender without discrimination. Learning knows no age limit. As an adult I find it insulting that you do not think I am responsible enough to enjoy the museum. And finally adults all have inner children that should be indulged, who are you to say I have no inner child and can not appreciate and explore with wonder what you have to offer.

I guess inner children don’t count anymore and that makes my inner child very very sad. I was really excited about seeing, learning and exploring such a highly esteemed institute. It is such a shame that they are such ageists.

I still my pen because I still my mind. It leads me to places that I have visited time and time again. I am tired of my mind and so I am tired of where my pen goes. 

I still my pen because I still my mind. It leads me to beautiful places that only exist there. I want to share them only with myself and so because I am selfish my pen is quiet. 

I still my pen because I still my mind. It remembers a history told before. It remembers happiness and pain. It remembers laughter and anger. It remembers what cannot be shared, and so it forgets as does my pen. 

I still my pen because I still me mind. Nothing is worthy of the ink. It dries on paper with empty words. There is no story to tell. There is no inspiration.

I still my pen, I still my mind, I still my heart.  

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus
I’ll and show you it faces
I’ll show you its places

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus
You can hear it voices
You can feel its pulses

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus
It is as old as time
It has many stories to tell

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus
You can write your own history
Make your own tapestry

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus
Meet the players
Feel its rhythm

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus
A walk through antiquity
A walk through history

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus
See it through my eyes
See it through new eyes

Let me take you for a walk in Damascus  

We walked everywhere in the old city. We usually started and ended our walks from our hotel, The Haramain. Part of the walk was under a bridge where an old man resided. Every time we walked by there he was there hunched over an old tin can full of blazing firewood. This is a sight I never expected and broke my heart whenever I walked by. I always wanted to stop and talk to him, ask him why he lived here and slept hunched over his tin. I never got the chance because he last time I passed I had worked up the courage to do so, but he was gone and his tin was strewn aside with all the ashes scattered all over the floor. I wonder what happened to him, what he has seen, where he has gone, and what will be of him. 

The old woman of Damascus in Bab Sharqi though was very forth coming with her story, she stopped and spoke to us of her children, her travels, her health and only left us to continue her walk in the neighborhood after wishing us all the luck in the world and muttering a small prayer on our behalf. 

Our walks also had us stumble across a writer and artist who told us of his political imprisonment, his atheist writings and his love of women. He was a welcoming man with a vivid brush and a sharp pen. He was also a generous soul, and invited us back for lunch the next day. Unfortunately we couldn’t oblige. 

No visit to Damascus is ever complete without a stroll to the Nawfara Cafe. There if you time your visit right you can sit in the warmth of the café and hear the storyteller tell his tale. He spoke of an old Arabic hero Antar Bin Shadad. He spoke with humor, anger, passion, and anticipation. He involved us all and made each of us feel special. His art is a dying one and I believe he is the last of his kind that still tells the stories of old. 

The characters of the city are many, you can find them all over. The story teller, the twirling dervish, the baker making sfeiha, the man roasting fresh chestnuts in the street, the shop keeper who is a collector at heart, the artists, the old lady going to church, the men playing backgammon in the street, the bar keeper, the homeless, the children playing in the streets, the mothers, the fathers, the visitors and the residents. They are all there, no visit is complete without them, no walk realized without an interaction with at least one of them. 

The people make the place and the place makes the people. Damascus is one with its people. The city is in their faces, their voices, their actions. 


I try my best to leave the country whenever there are ritualistic festivities. Last Eid I made it to Sri Lanka, this time I crossed the northern border into Syria. I went with a few friends and from the minute we set off till we came back the hilarity never stopped. 

Our journey started off on an interesting note. We were told at the border that our Syrian car could only cross after three in the afternoon! And so after our driver sweet talked the guard and my friend and I joked and flirted (Jordanian style) we were let through with no delay. 

We arrived in the early afternoon at my favorite hostel, The Haramain. The Haramain is an old Damascan four storey house. The basement is dedicated to laundry and showers. The first floor is the tiny lobby staffed by a couple of very friendly young men, and once through the lobby you see the small “bahra” a typical fountain found in the center of most of the houses’ courtyards. This foyer is surrounded by 5 small rooms with wrought iron beds and tiled with old beautifully colored tiles. A lopsided wooden staircase creaks as you climb up to the first floor also with 5 rooms each with narrow long windows looking out at the alleys surrounding the hostel. The rooms here are charmingly simple also tiled beautifully and housing big old iron beds. The rooms all open to a small sitting room furnished with brown leather couches and armchairs that make an ideal setting for meeting other travelers passing through the city. This place has charm, and a comfortable energy that is laid back, making you feel you really are at home.

After dumping our stuff in our rooms, we walked out towards the old city, which is a lazy 10 minute walk away. The old city of Damascus is by far the most charismatic place in the city. The streets and alleys are well worn by the feet of the many that have traversed through there. The many souks covered and otherwise are an intricate maze of color, sound and people. 

Wherever we went I was struck by the simplicity and the commonness of our surroundings. The people if judged by their dress and outward appearance are conservative, yet they were out in droves at all hours of the day and night walking, playing, loving, living and just being. Men, women, and children, the babes, the young and the old were all out despite the stereotypes in our heads that these conservative societies are closed and hidden. They were enjoying the antiquity of their city and it was a refreshing sight to see. 

Also surrounding us was the beautiful old architecture of the Umayyads, Ottomans and many others who have left their imprints in metal work, wood, stone, and masonry. All around us was antiquity in a modern space. Walking the alleys and streets of the old city was like walking through time. There were turns that lead down narrow streets with windows set high and doorways leading to all sorts of lives and pleasures. You never knew what to expect when turning a corner or walking through a door way. I will never forget the tiny door that only showed a baker making delicious pasties and a stairway. Walking up was the marvel of storey after storey of a restaurant. That tiny doorway was an entry way to a restaurant that seated over 250 people without trouble and it was constantly full with a waiting list! That doorway was not the only one of its kind many a marvel waited behind a small wooden door for us to stumble upon it. 

Once such doorway led down a staircase into the Umayyad Palace Restaurant. There under beautiful arches and amidst gorgeous collections of antiques, memorabilia, artwork and inlaid furniture we were treated to the beautiful sounds of oud and some exquisite music that relaxed the soul. But it was not just an experience for the eyes and ears ever sense was treated with delicacy. The smell of kina and jasmine floated to us from the burner where the leaves were soaked in water in an old iron engraved pot on top of the burner. The eyes were treated with reverence with the beautiful surroundings and if that wasn’t enough then there was the performance of the twirling dervish, who spun around for us, twice, with such grace and elegance. Our taste buds were also indulged to a culinary feast with a four course buffet laid out before us to choose whatever we fancied. Who knew that such an experience was at the tip of our fingers once we pass through a simple doorway in a simple alleyway off the side of the mosque. 

Another doorway led us to a museum called the Azem Palace. This was huge old house with three main areas: The Haramlek, The Khadamlek and the Salamlek. These are the family area, the servants area, and the reception area respectively. The house was a fine example of how families lived with the different quarter clearly defined and separated and non interfered with the day to day life of the family. This stop was also a clear example of how nothing is truly closed! Parts of the museum were “closed” for renovations however, with a kind word and a beaming smile we were let through to the Haramlek which as I mentioned was closed for renovation. We sat in this huge courtyard that had a fountain and a small pool, beautiful citrus trees and a small band of cats. They were following the caretaker around, for he feeds them daily. We were introduced to their names and they played and sat with us for a while. Today they alone are the true inhabitants of the palace. 

At complete odds with what it led to was the doorway to Villa Moda, set in the heart of the old city, with a huge old wooden door opens to the most luxurious, most lavish and most expensive designer wear available in the city. It was in such contrast with everything around, meant to shock, awe and intimidate. 

Regardless of where the doorways led, they were beautiful. Some were huge with smaller doors within others were just the right size, and others required us to duck down as we walked through them. As I was inspecting one such door I turned around to see a swarm of children who suddenly gained the same interest in the door and about 10 boys wanted to help me peer through and open the door. I was astounded at how fast I went from being alone to being circled by these ever helpful boys, that it was so comical I couldn’t stop laughing for a full 10 minutes. 


But not everything we saw was through a doorway. Some of Damascus was laid out before us and for more on the Damascus we experienced read the next post: A Walk Through The Land of The Umayyads.

Today I have been a chameleon in different worlds with in my city. Today I have hob knobbed with the underprivileged and stood side by side with the upper echelon of society.  I do this belonging to neither. 

Today I visited more than one location in the lesser privileged or served areas of Amman for various reasons. Whenever I go to these neighborhoods, I am greeted with a sense of belonging; a belonging to society and humanity with its true daily struggles. The smiles are genuine. Their hearts clouded and heavy, but simple and pure. The people walk, carry their own bags. They know their baker, butcher and candlestick maker. They are appreciative, and ever so giving. They aren’t afraid to loose because they have nothing to loose. They are the salt of the earth, and you can’t live without salt. 


Today I also was in more affluent neighborhoods and places, whether it was the elitist gym of Abdoun, where I took my laptop to work use their free wireless or the mall up the road with all its designer stores. But what took the cake, or chocolate, I would say was the opening of a new chocolate house I went to. This place was full of society men and women, I saw three fur coats, many coiffed heads and the ostentatious atmosphere was all around. What saddened me was I fit right in too. 

I traverse time, space, and privilege nearly everyday with the various duties of work, society and family. The contrast I see is widening, it scares me. I walk a middle ground between the two lives but the path is getting narrower and narrower and it is only a matter of time when me and the likes of me will no longer be able to traverse between the two lives seamlessly. When the time comes to choose, I know that I would be happier being among the salt of the earth, because you can’t live with out salt.  

The Argeela bubbles
The sweet scented smoke clouds
I am lost in the headiness of it all
The coals swirl around, hot, red, don’t touch you’ll burn
I in hale deeply, knowing the danger, loving the effect
Her voice bubbles
In the dark, it gurgles, it laughs
In the dark, she is my vice
She is my release
She is my pastime, my leisure
My quiet voice in the dark
The voice of thought, of anger, of laughter and of pleasure
The voice that whispers sweet nothings all around me through smoke
She is my vice that I can not indulge
She is the voice I can not hear
She is my voice in the dark
She is the argeela.  

It boils
It rages
It reaches the rim
It surfaces
But it stays within 

I anger from silence
I anger from indifference
I anger from pain
I anger from words never spoken
I anger from within 

My pen writes in fury
My mind races with thought
My feet stomp the path way
It is all a hurricane circling within.

Next Page »