the mind of a self-proclaimed كنداكة

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Entry #15: how do i love

Note: This is deeply personal to me. I kind of just wrote it because I just love so much. It’s laden with references that only parties present would understand. It’s very very very very personal to me.

I love the idea of love but I don’t know how to love.

But what is love?

It could be mama’s work toab thrown across the living room couch while she stirs the mulah at 6 pm, barely making it home in time for lunch.
Or is it my baba’s calls of “Inaam!” when he brings in a fresh bunch of grapes from the local grocer?
No, it’s my brother’s replies to reckless Snapchat stories of hazy nights with my best friend
“I don’t like this.” He types.
“Ugh, he’s so annoying.” Seven dimensions away I sigh.
It could be my sister’s text this morning
10:52 am
I’m barely awake. But she knows.

No, I don’t think it’s any of those.

I’m lost. I’m so fucking confused. I love love but I don’t know what it is love. I keep finding love. How do I find it when I don’t know what it is? Where it is?

Where is love?

Is it in the arch of my foot when I shift my weight to my toes and elongate my body to wrap my arms around friends’ shoulders?
Or does it pump the adrenalin through my system when I realize mama hasn’t come back from “court”?
I think it might be in the corners of my nephew’s mouth as he flashes his tiny square teeth emphasizing the “i” in “Homi”.
It must be in me cradling his head peppering kisses across his forehead in the backseat of his car
Because I can’t show him how much I love him outside
And I don’t know how to show I love him otherwise
And I do
I think I do
I know I do
Do I?

If I don’t know how to love, then how do I love?

How do I explain the tingling in my toes as we sing Beyonce in a classroom with no teacher, knowing that this is the only lesson that matters?
How do I understand the warmth in my chest when we video chat across a multitude of time zones that feel like one?
How can I interpret the calm in my soul as we hide in the back of the balcony, chain-smoking shisha behind our parents’ backs, trying to collectively drown our misery and strengthen the chains that keep us together?
How would I justify the excitement in my body when they say, “Asali okhtik wa akhok namshi natghada wein”, and it finally feels like your family is complete for the first time since 2009?
How do I explain the wrenching of my gut when I remember September 2013?
When I hear “Ilz”? “Mushtageen”? “Roll thru”? “We?”?
What does it mean?

No, I don’t think it’s that I don’t know how to love. I think I love too much. I never learned how to love because this to me is love.


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Entry #14: love?

Hands to temples to chest, nervous lips mouthing verses from the Holy Book.
My God is Love and my God, do I love Him
I worship Him everyday, five times a day.
I love Him.

But I love him too.
And I let him go.
Then I let Him go.

I baptized my throat with the holy water of Night and begged His forgiveness.
I begged Him to take me back.
To love me again.
And He did.

I burnt my mind and my lungs, and purged my soul of the sin of being.
I cried for You to let me in.
And You did.

I bleached my heart and bleached my guts and tried to find myself.
I tried to love myself.
To be worthy of my love.
But I was not worthy of Yours.
And I’m not worthy of yours either.

I fell to my knees in worship of his being and showed him how love can feel if he just let me into his temple.
My knees haven’t since touched the ground to remind You how my love feels.
I let him rip my soul from where my thighs loved each other and show me that You are real.
My palms haven’t since cupped the air and thanked You for the blessings you hand me.
We sang a symphony of desire written in bass and soprano in reverence of each other.
My lips haven’t since recited a hymn for You.
I pressed my body against his in search of a worship I could finally be good at.
My lips cried out his name in pleasure and sin, and all the in-betweens.
My lips cried out Your name in desperation and love, and all that came out was a deafening silence.
Why don’t you love me anymore?
Do You still love me?

They say love is a form of worship
But how is love worship when you worship Love itself?
How is love worship when they say Love does not let you worship through love?
How do I find you?
How do I worship what You’ve given me?
I love You.
I think I love you.
But do You love me?
Do you love me?

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Entry #11: i dont know what to do or say

They tell you your first love is one you’ll never forget, but they don’t teach you how to deal with the heartbreak when it ends. As if it weren’t obvious, I’m having a hard time coping with my first break-up. Sometimes the right thing to do feels extremely awful and hurts like hell. But c’est la vie, I guess.

This is for all the fellow broken-hearted people.

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Entry #10: A heart that is too heavy to bear

The horrific things happening in the world right now, the U.K., Afghanistan, the GCC, South Sudan, Yemen and more, just wow. My heart is so so heavy. Hearing Philando Castile’s murderer has been acquitted was the final straw. Don’t you ever tell me that institutionalized racism doesn’t exist. Don’t ever tell me that black lives hold the same value as white lives. Don’t you EVER tell the Black Lives Matter supporters that it should be All Lives Matter because we don’t owe you a lesson on slavery (which deadass still exists) and the comparative worth of black lives. Black people will never know peace, ever. I just want to know, when I move to the US will I have to continually explain my worth and justify why I deserve to exist? Will I have to shield myself and make sure I don’t look suspicious (whatever the hell that means) so that I don’t get shot for being black? Tell me, when is it going to end? When are black people going to be able to breathe and live? “All men were created equal” suuuuure. It’s messed up to the very core when blatant homicide isn’t punished. Black people will never be safe anywhere.

I lost all hope in everything. Last year, when I met the British ambassador to the UN, I asked what is being done to help Sudan. He told me lots is being done but they have more pressing issues. I understand there’s a lot on your plate but no particular UN effort has been successful recently in my opinion. You tell me we just don’t matter as much, I bite my tongue and hope that your efforts elsewhere are working. But they’re not.

I’ve been avoiding talking about politics and social justice recently because I feel absolutely helpless and angry. The world we live in is gradually getting worse and no amount of countering we can do will ever be enough. I’m tired, you’re tired, everyone’s tired. I can’t even properly articulate myself anymore because all that comes out is anger and tears. I’m completely over it. But I will embody the angry black woman trope until my dying breath. Solange Knowles simply and eloquently sang, “There’s a lot to be mad about.” No truer words have been spoken. I cannot rest with a mind buzzing like this. I cannot rest with a soul that is THIS heavy. I cannot rest until we all know what peace is. As we’re not able-bodied middle class white cisgender heterosexual men, we’ll never know peace. To everyone who has ever been oppressed by the system or screwed over by a tragedy, my heart and soul are always with you. I’m always behind you. Until then, we need to find a strength to fight everything that’s thrown our way. I love you, always and forever. All I can say for now is rest in power, Philando Castile. You deserved better. Black people deserve better. The world deserves better. #nojusticenopeace

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Entry #9: Men are trash

1. If you’re saying women are trash in retaliation to the men are trash wave, then you’re trash.
2. Same narrative as black lives matter. We don’t need to say that all lives matter because they do but what needs to be reiterated is black lives matter because they seemingly don’t to authorities in America. So, when we’re saying men are trash we’re saying that the way women have historically been and are currently being treated by men is inherently, for lack of a better word, trash.
3. We don’t necessarily hate men. We resent the system. Do you hold black people accountable when they’re mad about something “white people” do? No? Because of the institutionalization of racism.
4. If you’re not a feminist, i.e., you don’t believe in gender equality and equity, then you’re not a human rights advocate. You’re an oppressor. Being a non-feminist female is worse because you’re perpetrating patriarchal rhetoric about natural and traditional gender roles and condoning sexism and misogyny.
5. I respect all opinions but your opinion is oppressive, and I will not have it.

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Entry #6: thoughts vs thots

When he looks at you
You feel the whole world spring to life inside of you
You breathe in his scent and sense your whole soul being set aflame
A flame that burns like the coal skewering the familiar mixed molasses and tobacco consumes your senses
Sensing his eyes bore deep into yours and feel the sheer nakedness of who you are
Are you even yours anymore?

She tells you she loves you for the first time
Time ceases to exist. An ultraviolet supernova replaces the vacuum where your heart used to be.
Believe in it. Feel your fingertips lose sensation and nurture the fire that runs in your veins.
Venture into the hesitant lines of her smile and walk your lips along that trail.
Trail your soul behind where ever hers goes.
Is your soul even yours anymore?

I belonged to myself. I lost all possession of my being when I met you.

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Entry #2

As I adjusted my font to 10-point Helvetica, I contemplated how I had been battling myself endlessly on whether I should write about this or not, thinking it is far too ridiculous and insignificant but also believing it is necessary as I need to get this off my chest. I have never been much of a person who had it easy, talking about their feelings and clearing their head, since my annoying habit of overthinking usually behaves as an obstacle. Along with my writing/speaking complexities, this obstacle morphs into a brick wall, which further prevents me from growing as a person, something I find rather aggravating. Having grown sick of being stuck in cul-de-sac, I decided that I needed to get out of my comfort zone and start doing things which little ol’ me would not usually do. Seeing as “talking” is an issue in this area, this is me getting over it. Proud of me or what?

I suppose this blog is supposed to help me expand my horizons and explore my writing capabilities so I hope for everyone’s sake that I don’t sound as atrocious in reality as I do in my head, because believe me, sometimes my personal analysis of my thoughts and writing style perplexes me, and mostly not in a good way. I think the main issue here goes back and forth between courage and self-esteem issues. There is no wizard here to give me heart nor is this a situation where my “hidden talent” gets “discovered”; this is real life and I’m going to take it one step at time.

My writing issue isn’t the sole purpose of this post. As I mentioned previously, I honestly hope that through blogging I’ll be able to go through each individual thought I’m currently too preoccupied with. This isn’t going to be the only tactic I’m using to approach this issue, I sure hope I don’t become that spineless blogger who hides behind the screen all day long but this is one method I’m hoping to be effective.

Anyway, thank you for reading this and until next time!