karimisms

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Did You Go to the Moon

Did you go to moon?
Did you fly by a palm tree?
Swaying to music of the night,
Like a ballerina, liberated and free?

Did you land on a star?
Did you see the critters near and far?
Chirping like a rock and roll band,
With drums, a keyboard and a guitar?

Did you climb Mount Everest?
Did you camp at sixteen thousand feet?
Did you breathe no Oxygen?
As you nailed a flag without losing a beat?

Did you take a trip down a beehive?
Flying from hexagon to hexagon?
Passing thousands of worker bees buzzing,
Some staying a bit, and some are gone?

Did you score the winning goal?
Of a soccer game against Brazil?
Left and right between three defenders,
Tearing the net like a rocket made of steel.

Did you write a tale of little boy?
Who rubbed a little silver lamp?
Releasing a genie as mighty as the sword,
Flying out of the cave and into the damp swamp?

Did you paint the Mona Lisa?
Did you invent new colors?
Green merging into blue heaven,
Like the sky meeting emerald ocean covers.

Did you travel to Indonesia?
With a team of sherpas carrying your treasures,
Diamonds, Sapphires, and rubies,
Shiny like your eyes full of pleasures.

Take me with you next time my baby,
I will gladly serve on your crew.
For the rest of my life with gladness,
I will cherish my ride with you.

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:49 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

I am “not” a Cyclist

“Karim, you don’t bike, you cycle.” That was the advice of Portico editor Julie Keith as I prepared for my first bike ride ever this past summer.

The Salvation Army Century Ride started smoothly. Hundreds of cyclists took off from East Birmingham towards Springville. My Samford group and I were just peddling along when we went by a “wipe out”, (a cyclist’s term for someone losing it). All I saw was a girl laying on the side of the road with a few people around her, and a knee that lacked much skin. I gripped the handle bar a little tighter as we moved along the wet road.

The air was thick and humid from the rain the night before, and the cars didn’t seem to know we were there. Each mile took somewhere between 12 and 15 minutes. We were going at an easy pace while being passed by the serious cyclists, and then I met my first “hill” (a cyclist term for a mountain that will make you hate yourself.) The hill was a half-mile long, and at the very top of it, I knew I should have trained more than the “one time” I did.

We continued along when I saw the 26 mile turn, I decided to stick with it. There is always the option of the “sag— wagon” (a cyclist term meaning the van that picks you up when you expire from the many hills.) My legs started feeling like mush, and my hands were getting extremely tired from gripping the handle bar. It took me a while to figure out taking on the hills. You don’t want to be on the “granny” gear (A cyclist term meaning the gear that allows your 90-year-old grandmother to summit the longest hill.) You want to become friends with a gear somewhere in the middle. It is a game between how fast you want to finish the *-&^%#? Hill and how fast you want to spin without going anywhere.

We suddenly got on a road that made the miles go by faster. It was a beautiful two-lane highway lined with farms and rolling hills. Then I saw the 40-mile split, and for some odd reason, I continued along with my group toward the goal of 60 miles. No one said a word; I just thought I knew what I was doing.

Black clouds started to move in at mile 48, and then the sky opened up and a deluge of what felt like nails in the face began. We were looking for shelter when the sag wagon drove up and picked us up. I felt so relieved…its over, or so I thought. They drove us to the next rest stop, a mile down the road, where I found out about true grit. My group was determined to finish the ride. I decided to go for it, when the guy at the rest stop warned us about the famous “cemetery hill” up a head. I had never heard the term before (a cyclist term meaning the 3-mile-hill on highway 78 a few miles east of Birmingham, or as I describe it: Death Hill). I looked at him with disbelief. I was trying to convince my self that 3-mile-hills do not exist. We start Cemetery hill, and after the first mile, I started to think: maybe its true. Mile two came along and we were still going up. Then mile three came, and I experienced my first “wall” (a marathon term meaning you cannot go any farther, or you were wishing you would turn into a wall). Somehow I finished the dreaded hill and felt a sense of jubilation as we neared the end.

As we biked into the parking lot, we knew we were dead last, but it did not matter. What mattered is that we finished despite a couple of flat tires, a monsoon, and Cemetery Hill.

I have the Salvation Army to thank for this wonderful experience. As well as Cahaba Cycles and Cameras Brookwood for their donations of the bike and the camera. I hope the ride and future rides will raise the awareness of the Salvation Army’s efforts to combat serious social ills. We cycled on that Saturday, but many people the Salvation Army helps could not provide food and shelter for their families.

Now I ride occasionally, and I will probably ride for a long time. I even came up with my own cyclist term: “tmtontydsm” (a term meaning: train more than once next time you do sixty miles!)

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:45 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Newspaper memories

Newsroom Memories:

I worked as a photojournalist at the Birmingham Post-Herald, which seized publication this past Friday, from 1990 to 1995. I had a keen sense of sadness on Friday, at the same time; I tried to recount some highlights from my tenure at the “newspaper”. Call me crazy, but there is something romantic about saying “newspaper” in this age of wireless media and pocket-sized, instant information. As I count the ten stories I remember the most, nuances of actual newsroom vignettes come to my recollection.

The photography department sat in the corner of the newsroom far from the entry hallway. Having to walk right by the photo desk was tough on the days I was late. Picture Editor Larry Kasperek would always give me the look the said:” You are late young man” The eight o’clock shift can be too early for anyone in there twenties. Some days, Former editor Jimmy Denly would ring a bell in the middle of the newsroom to make happy announcements whether it was winning an award or receiving a great feedback letter. It was cool to hear the bell; you never knew when they were going to say that you won a gigantic award.

Below are ten stories I remember the most:

1- When the Dessert Storm story broke, I remember watching the sea of anit-aircraft fire streaming out of Baghdad into the night’s sky. Everyone in the newsroom fell in silence. Having been born in Damascus, Syria; the affects of the ethereal site were intolerable. Mixed emotions engulfed me and I had to go home for the rest of that day. My feelings as an Arab-American are still conflicted, while I applaud the freedom the Iraqi people might experience; I realize that embracing freedom peacefully can require time and patience.
2- I covered the fire at the Highland Presbyterian Church on April 8th, 1992. That day, I had a ruptured aneurism in my brain. I was in a coma for a month, and it took me eight months to return to work. The Post-Herald never stopped my paycheck, despite the fact that they never knew if I would ever return to work. As I walk around every day cherishing this gift we call life, I think of how much I owe the Post-Herald.
3- The Birmingham news won the Pulitzer in (19–?) For an editorial series on (tax dollars in Alabama?). I remember feeling huge that day. Despite the fact that I worked for the competing newspaper. All you had to say that you were a journalist in Birmingham and people were extremely impressed. It was rewarding for everyone, and I was proud to be living in this city; which is mostly recognized for its few shameful episodes of hatred and racial divide.
4- Traveling to cover football games was always an exhilarating experience, especially when Alabama won the national championship in 1992. Covering the Iron Bowl always made me feel as if I was on a different planet. I found out quickly that if you live in Alabama, football is not a sport; it’s a lifestyle.
5- I covered a story with Elaine Witt in the woods of Sand Mountain, and I remember feeling as if it was 1950. The people, the houses, the cars, even the puppies looked from that era. I spent a week going back and fourth, stepping from civilization into the past…a very surreal, never the less very real, part of the state. The people were as friendly and sweet as they come, and they were not concerned that their world was isolated. To them, it was a peaceful one. They made me wish I could go back in time…
6- The quilters of Gees Bend became famous after the PBS documentary this year. I remember my first trip to that troubled spot, and the disbelief that engulfed me as I learned about the ferry and the fact that the isolation of the area was “sort off” intentional. I then delved into the history of the black belt and found out how complicated the issue was. It is an unrelenting, viscous cycle of poverty and lack of education keeping that region were it stands today: one of the poorest in the country. . I still to this day wonder how many strides in race relations we have made in making the “Dream” come true
7- Kathy Kemp, who worked at the Post-Herald at the time, and I covered many stories together. I loved her ability to bond with people quickly. One of the memorable ones was the infield at Talladega were the lines of reality were blurred by too much beer. Being an Arab-American, I certainly did not fit the typical fan, and Kathy and I heard a few “comments”. To this day I still think everyone should experience the Talladega infield once.
8- One of Birmingham’s darker moments came when the Shoal Creek administration was quoted saying that they discourage blacks from joining their club. The nation went into a frenzy, and the club quikely denied the charge. Shoal Creek later accepted its first black member. Such stories were tough to live through, but telling them did improve matters…most of the time. I wonder what, then teenager, Tiger Woods thought of the debacle.
9- One evening I covered a paradox of tales. The first one was a cigar aficionados meeting at the Winfry hotel. Over 200 participants gathered in their tuxedos and shared cigars and cigar-stories. Then I traveled across Birmingham to a Launder mat in West End were they conducted a weekly revival. There was shouting and singing, as well as falling backward as the spirit took over. Thank god for the women dressed in white dresses who caught the people losing consciousness. I will never experience two such events in one night. That is the part I miss about my “newspaper”.
10- After an innocent by-stander was gunned down at the Metropolitan Housing Projects, which is now The Hope-6 Development, Kathy Kemp and I spent three months visiting the nieborhood and documenting its shattered lives. After working for magazines for the past ten years and covering a variety of stories from travel and politics to sports and lifestyle, that story remains one of my all time favorites. We named it “Dreams Die Young at 5th Court North”…they did and still do in parts of this city. It felt warm and tender to tell a story that would have gone unnoticed, and my hope was that it motivated someone to change things. And things are changing for the better all the time, at least that is the motto a journalist lives by.

Thank you to all of the Birmingham Post-Herald editors, writers, and photographer who I deem as an unforgettable part of my past. I am a better journalist, and a person, because of the your investment in me.

“Karim Shamsi-Basha is a photojournalist residing in Birmingham. He hopes these and other memories from the Birmingham Post-Herald will reside in his and the readers minds for ever.”

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:38 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Arabian Minsconceptions

I am often asked to speak about being an Arab in a not-a-good-time-to-be-an-Arab age. When I do I always struggle with the opening joke. A friend of mine came to me rescue at a conference in Dallas. “Tell them a camel joke,” he said, with all seriousness in his eye. He continued: “you know, you are from the Middle East, what could be funnier?” What my friend did not realize was the fact that the first camel I saw was in Tennessee at the Knoxville Zoo.

To sum up to people in this country what is like to live here while being Arab would be like describing a Confederate soldier at a party with Union soldiers after the civil war. Some will ignore him, a few will go out of their way to make him feel comfortable, and a couple might actually take a shot at him…hopefully only using the tongue as a weapon.

What follows are the ten misconceptions about Arabs which I have personally encountered, and still do. The wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the events of 9/11, and the endless bloodshed in Israel, Lebanon, and Palestine have left people with an extremely one-sided, sensualized, and plain-wrong idea of the make-up of the Arab people.

1- Arabs do not ride camels to work: I grew up in Kuwait, then moved to Damascus, the city of my birth at age 12. Eventually I left Syria for the United States at age 18. In my 18 years in the Middle East, I have never seen a camel. I read about them, saw them on TV, and even had friend who had seen one. For the most part, my back yard included cats and dogs, just like they do here. It did not include big animals with humps, which also spit at you.
2- Arabs are not terrorists: I was attending a wedding in Sacramento California last year for a friend of mine. I during the rehearsal dinner, the bride’s father came up to me, and with an inquisitive look he said: “Are you a terrorist?” That was hardly the first time I have been asked that question, but considering that the bride was a close friend of mine baffled me. I looked at him trying to decipher his attitude: was it joke? Please God, let it be a joke. It was not…he continued his inquisitive look into my eyes waiting for an answer. “No sir, I am not a terrorist,” I said, and then just quietly walked away. Some Arabs have inflicted terrorist acts against humanity, but so have everyone else. Being Arab does not automatically make you capable of hurting people. I know some Arabs that will not swat a fly because it has a “soul”.
3- Arabs are not all Muslim: once a month someone will ask me what Islam is like. I turn around and ask them: “what makes you think I am a Muslim?” Arabs comprise an extremely diverse religious background. Most are Muslim, but a fair percentage is Christian of all denominations. I did grow up Muslim. But after living here for 23 years, I have become to adore Christianity enough to call it mine…and I am very tolerant of many other faiths. I walked to school in Damascus for a mile every day passing two mosques and a church all on the same street. In my senior year, we spent more time that I can remember in my friend’s neighborhood of Bab-Touma. For an odd reason at the time, the girls in that section of town were the prettiest. I was never told by anyone that Bab-Touma was the “Christian” part of town…that was not an issue…pretty girls though…That was definitely the issue for a group of teenage boys. Christian in the Arab world means a mix in the blood line between East and West. We all know the result of a mixture of blood lines: pretty girls!
4- Arabs are not “simple/uneducated” people: My father died at age 88 two years ago leaving a legacy behind him. He was the Poet Laureate of Syria for many years, and wrote over twenty books about Arabic literature. He was honored by the Life Time Achievement Award the year before his death for his efforts to preserve the Arabic language. We are people with education standards that rival and surpass many other countries. I attended the University of Tennessee and majored in Engineering. Arabs were extremely popular as study partners because things like Calculus are thought in Ninth grade in most Arabic countries.
5- Arabs do not all look alike: I was attending a Christmas party here in Birmingham last year which included many of the city’s most influential and educated people. I started a conversation with a man who resembled my father. I was intrigued and I told him about the resemblance. We then exchanged pleasantries about our origins and families, then he added: “Why do Arabs all look the same?” I was taken back just like with the terrorist question at the wedding. I said: “Actually, I doubt we do…” and moved on. People of foreign origin might all look similar because we have the human urge is to lump them into one small category we can label.
6- Arabs have desserts, but they also have cities: Growing up in Damascus was not much different than growing up in New York. Damascus is a city of 5 million people with a downtown that resembles Manhattan. It would take us more than an hour to find a parking spot whenever we were stupid enough to drive downtown. Once we found a spot, we left the car there a long time just to enjoy the sweetness of the event. You would almost want to just sit there and watch your car parked on one of the busiest street in the Syrian Capital, until the tow truck came!
7- Arabs eat more than Falafels and Humus: The next time someone says: “Oh..I love Humus, when they learn I come from an Arab descent; I am going to say: Oh…are you American? I love burgers!” I grew up eating incredible food my mother, the best cook in the world, put on our table. And Humus was rarely on that table. The Arabian cuisine reflects the diverse geographic influences of twenty countries, which border Asia, Europe, and Africa as well as most bodies of water on this planet.
8- Speaking of geography…will you please look at a map? During my 23 years in this country, I have been asked if Syria was in South America, near Fiji, in Europe, in South Africa, close to Russia, and somewhere near Israel. I cannot count the times where I had to draw the Middle East on a bar napkin. I can understand the fact that this country is huge and diverse and very self-sufficient in many things. I am very thankful I live in a country, which for the most part, embraces freedom for its people. What I cannot understand is what makes the rest of the world so eager to know about other countries, while some people I this country are content with a more limited knowledge of this world.
9- Arabs are insanely loving people: I remember seeing my dad cry at the sight of mom on the balcony watering the flowers. I asked him why he is tearing up…looked at me and said: “Have you ever seen a more beautiful creature?” At age ten, I thought he was talking about the flowers…”Weird..” I said and walked away. If you have never dated an Arab or a Mediterranean, you have missed seeing your partner happy to give his or her life for you. My tenth grade was devoted to a neighbor of mine named Sahar, an Arabic word which means magic. And magic she had. I was an A student with some B’s, thrown around just for good luck, during my 9th, 11th, and 12th years; the tenth was dedicated to Sahar. My parents tried everything they knew off, but I was totally dysfunctional. Now that I have been single for five years, I have finally put some walls up to guard my heart, but they are made of glass. My dad, Mr. Poet, told me that my heart was like a piece of land, every time it gets hurt, the land is tilled; and is better suited for the next harvest.
10- Arabs are not the enemy: Ignorance is. The more we know about each other, the more peaceful our lives will be. The flip side to all the violence around us is that it is making people desire to learn more. And with learning, barriers crash and enemies based on ignorance tolerate each other. I went scuba diving in the Caribbean while I was on a cruise a few years ago, after I woke up late one day and, how do you say…hung-over? I saw this big Manatee approach me. I turned to look for my partner seeking refuge since she had scuba dived for years, but she was gone. I was fifty feet below the surface all alone with this giant thing, which was coming to eat me for breakfast. All I could think off was what an awful way to die. I started remembering the details of the morning and how bad my headache was, and how I did not want to scuba dive. My friend was insistent, so we did…and now it is going to be over. I knew nothing about these animals. I knew what to do in case you see a shark, besides praying, but Manatees? What were these things…what did they eat? That was the question hovering between my eyes and my foggy goggles. I stayed still and looked at the giant. She got close. I would like to think it was a she, somehow that made things a little better…she got close and started swimming all around me. I could see the spear in the tail, I could have touched it. It was one of the most beautiful things I have ever witnessed. The gorgeous body of this giant was gliding through the water with no resistance…and no wake. It was as if she was made of water as well…the two surfaces, her body, and the water, were molten together at touch. You hear about magical moments though out your life, and this was definitely one. The giant swam around me several times, and then hovered. I took a breath thinking she was going to unleash the spear. But it just glided away as if to say: “no…you don’t look yummy enough…and your breath…did you brush your teeth this morning?” I hurried to the top counting my blessings. It was not until a few years later that I realized, what terrified me about the Manatee was my ignorance of everything about it. Now that I have read all you could fin about that elegant creature, I look forward to another encounter. And I will brush my teeth!

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:34 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

Poem: Hope

Hope is quite
like a butterfly wing,
Or wild flowers playing a silent symphony,
in the calm wind.

Hope feeds our souls.
It is as gentle as a dew drop.
It makes me strong, brave, and proud;
It makes me never stop.

Hope is humble
like a mustard seed,
it moves mountains with its tiny might,
a courageous deed.

Hope is a whisper
Yet I can still hear it loud and clear.
I just listen with my heart and know,
God’s love is near.

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:30 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

My Life Defining Moment

My life defining moment as the father of a teenage boy finally came last week as Zade, a freshman at Homewood High School, played his trumpet for the first time with the marching band. The band will be featured in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in New York this year.

As the Homewood Patriots football team prepared to take on Tallassee, a school located near Montgomery, I arrived at the stadium Friday night with the glee of a new papa. I immediately looked for Zade among the sea of 300 Patriots in the stands to no avail. There are so many of them, if we were in a war with England, we would have won. So I waited until the halftime show hoping to spot Zade on the field. How hard could it be to find a fourteen-year-old boy who plays one of thirty trumpets?

That morning Zade called me just to make sure I was going to be there. I assured him that I would be. Then he proceeded for the next ten minutes to tell me his position on the field during every song. They were going to play “stars fell on Alabama”, “Old Man River”, “Boogy Woogy Bugil Boy“, and “On Broadway”. He was going to be on the 40th yard line during this song, then move to the 30, but quickly run to the 50 facing this way here, and that way there… I tried to pay attention at first, thinking I could remember this. My attempts were futile as the details became so difficult, I actually said to him: “And you do all this while you are playing the trumpet?”

When the band marched on the field that night, I remembered my days at the University of Tennessee. The Homewood band looked as massive and as impressive. They started playing, and I realized that spotting Zade was going to be more difficult than I had imagined. Finally after straining my 41-year-old eyes and following a line of trumpeters, I saw him. I wanted to point to him and scream: “This is my boy!” Then they ran to start a new song, and I lost him again. As they played “Old Man River”, one of my favorite tunes, I was stunned at how Mr. Pince, Mr. Holbrooks, and Mr. Cooper, the music teachers at the high school; had gotten 300 high school students to perform so well in less than a month,

After the show, I wanted Zade to see me, so I asked his cousin Jordy if she knew where he was in the stands. She nodded, and dragged me by the hand to the walkway facing the band. I was standing next to the drum major facing three hundred patriots holding their musical instruments like they were weapons. I felt all of them looking at me as if I were a guest conductor about to take them into Beethoven’s Fifth. Jordy pointed to Zade who was seated three fourth of the way up to the right. I saw him, my face lit up, and I forgot that I was extremely obvious. I waved a shy wave. He had warned me in the past about my wave. He said:” Dad, you don’t wave like THAT. You don’t raise your hand and wiggle your fingers…just raise the hand and put it down quickly.” So I did just that. I raised my hand, did NOT wiggle my fingers, and put it down quickly.

Zade looked at me with a blank stare, then he mouthed two words deliberately and precisely with his lips while his face was turned away at an angle. I had no idea what he had said, so I mouthed the word: “What?” back to him. He looked at me intently, and mouthed the words again. This time I had a pretty descent idea of what the two words were. I looked at Jordy who said: “I think he said: GO AWAY”. I nodded in agreement, smiled, and quietly walked off the stage.

That was my induction into parenthood. The moment when I had to let go of my boy and watch him become a man who did not need his father. The dichotomy of the moment is astounding. At first, sadness ensues because my boy was growing up too fast. But then, Joy takes over because he loves me so much he has no problem letting me know how he feels. I am told this moment will last a few years, and then he will realize how much he still needs me.

I will cherish this time of Zade finding himself, and when he does, I will be there to lend a hand…if he needs it off course.

And I will always be ready and eager to: GO AWAY!

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:27 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

I Believe

I believe one day, my three children will be able to peacefully visit my homeland Damascus – Syria, and play marbles in the sandlot behind the apartment building where I grew up.

As a child growing up in the Middle East, I always wondered why Arabs and Israelis never got along. I would read all that I could. I would ask my father, who was a poet and a writer, all the questions I could. I was never satisfied with the complicated answers I received. I would say to my dad: “But the land is plenty big for all, isn’t it?” My dad would just nod with sad eyes. It seemed to make more sense that Muslims and Jews would coexist peacefully. After all, both people came from the same place. They had the same traditions, values, even looks.

Now as an Arab-American living in this democratic country and enjoying the freedom abundantly laid in front off me, I try to come to terms with my new identity. My compassion for my homegrown Arabic tendencies is oftentimes in conflict with the American-born privileges I adore. Back home I am a stranger in my own land. I am an Arab-American in America, and an American-Arab in Syria.

Recent events in Lebanon tell me the conflict may be more innately inscribed into our being than I had ever thought. The more heated the debate, more intense the bombing gets; and the later I delay my children’s visit to my troubled country. The latest killing of 56 civilians in the village of Qana just adds to the complexity and the gravity of the situation. World public opinion is leaning in favor of the Lebanese government and Hezbollah, at the same time, Hezbollah continues to launch missiles into Israel killing more civilians.

I just want my children to see the streets I wandered in my youth, and smell, taste, and touch my childhood memories. I want them to hear the music, feel the crowded city streets, and embrace the cool summer night breeze from the Mediterranean. I want them to play where I did, and wander the narrow alleyways of the oldest inhabited city on earth. I want them to taste the Syrian pastries I used to snitch before mom finished cooking, causing her to chase me down the hallway and into my father’s library where I would hide in his camel-hair robe (Abayae). Mom never suspected I was tucked in there and would look all around finally giving up. The dark and cozy cocoon of my father’s chest protected me when I was little. I want my kids to experience that…the same Abaya, the same smell, the same room. I want and I want and I want…

Hundreds of civilians are dying every day because of a meaningless power struggle. I cannot fathom what it will take for us to live in peace. What it will take for my children, Zade, Dury, and Demi to play marbles with the neighbor’s kids on that childhood sand lot in Damascus.

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:19 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

My brother’s Love Story in Baghdad

My brother, Maher, has resided in Baghdad for the past six years. He designed and sold women’s clothing,, and no I am not talking about the black cover-ups you see on television. Baghdad has a layer of society that wears Pierre Cardin and Christian Dior on casual days. He was a genius in coming up with gorgeous designs that affluent Iraqi women loved. His business was successful up to the war, when he lost everything. His plant was destroyed, and what was left of it was stolen. His house was damaged, causing him to move and start fresh in a whole new area of the city.

My parents in Damascus tried talking him into coming back to Syria, but he insisted on staying. “You don’t leave a place if you love the people and believe in it.” He used to say. What I did not know at the time was that the “people” he loved was his partner’s daughter, Solima, an Arabic name which means “Little Peace”.

Solima, according to my brother, is a beautiful woman with deep black eyes that are so big you feel yourself diving in when you look at her. She was a couple of years younger than he, and well educated. He had known her for over five years, but never got the courage to ask her out, even though his partner, Hisham, tried to push the two together. Solima was his only girl, and he loved my brother. And as he was approaching retirement, he wanted to see her with someone he trusted.

Love stories in the Middle East never make television. The media is too busy showing us the destruction and horror of the war. As necessary as it is for us to see those stories, I believe it is also important to read about the positive aspects of life even during war. Several million love stories take place in America every day; I wonder how many take place in Iraq.

As I was talking to my brother on the phone the other day about his love story, I remembered being a teenager in Damascus and having a crush on my neighbor that depleted all my energy for over a year. I was unable to be the social butterfly that I am because of Sahar, a name meaning magical beauty. And magical beauty she had. Long brown hair draped over her tiny shoulders and neck. She had Angelina Jolie’s lips , made for kissing, I used to think. And when she walked, I used to think the world had stopped to watch with me. She would sit on her balcony, conveniently located across from our balcony. She would either pretend to study, or sometimes actually study,–what I was unable to do that year. My grades were great in the ninth, eleventh, and twelfth years of high school. The tenth year was dedicated to Sahar.

Sahar and I never talked during the school year. We would just spend hours every night, her studying, and me pretending to study. Then summer came and the heat, which makes some people miserable, drove Sahar and me to the ice cream shop one afternoon. We gazed into each other’s eyes, and as my knees buckled and my face turned redder than the pimples all over it; she said hello.

I wonder how my brother met Solima. We talk every couple of weeks, mainly to make sure he is still alive. I cannot delve into the love story, despite the fact that I would rather talk about nothing else. All I know is that he just married Solima a month ago. They had a small wedding, since the big ones attract too much attention, and they are extremely happy. I talked to Solima on the phone for the first time a couple of weeks ago. It was like talking to my neighbor in Homewood. She had studied English all her life, in addition to french and some German. We spoke in English since I have lived here for the past twenty years.

Maher’s love for Solima only got stronger as the war got worse. He would not notice the bombings and shooting all around him, he just wanted to be with her. She spent a few hours a day helping her dad and my brother with their business adventures. Maher has always been an entrepreneur. Now he is starting a fish farming business in Baghdad. It is has never been done in Iraq before, and he is hopeful that the little bit of freedom he is enjoying will lead to more business opportunities. He did tell me quickly this one story when they kissed for the first time. They were in a shelter, which was a daily affair during the initial stages of the war when the bombing was intense. The heat in the shelter did not help with the heat they were producing as they sat next to each other talking in the dark for hours. Then it came, he just leaned over and planted a gentle kiss on her cheek, she responded with a small peck on his lips. And as his knees buckled, they were engulfed in a long passionate kiss as the bombs and anti-aircraft fire lit the skies outside.

A love story in a war-torn city seems unimaginable. But this one is real, and as the days pass and the situation in Iraq is still a mystery, one thing is for sure: My brother and his bride love each other, and they wish for the whole world to experience the love and peace they feel.

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:13 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

I am an Arab-American

I am an Arab-American…and I am a peace lover. That is how I announce my origin if I am asked. If I am not asked, it stays hidden, deep within my aching soul.

When I heard about the London bombings, I immediately fell in grief for all the people who lost their lives and their loved ones. Loss of life always makes me disregard my own feelings of shame. However, when I think of the millions of Arabs and Muslims who chose to live in countries offering freedom, a second wave of anguish and sorrow strikes. Sorrow because we have to wake up every day and try to prove to the world that we are not terrorists. That most of us have passions and desires not too different from anyone else’s. That most of us would not harm another human being even if our own life depended on it. That, despite the war in Iraq and the chaos that has ensued, most of us are still peaceful and discerning people. Even though some of us may feel conflicted about the war in Iraq, we condemn the London bombings along with 9/11, the insurgency attacks and any other terrorist act committed by an Arab, a Muslim, a McVeigh, or a Rudolph.

I have lived in the United States for half of my life, 20 years to be exact. I have completely embraced what this country has to offer from free elections to the fact that I can choose my own destiny. I am raising my three children and hoping they regard the freedom they have been born into, and that they would appreciate principles such as self-fulfillment, dreams, and making them come true. I tell all of my friends and acquaintances how appreciative I am of the freedom I have been given. I still have to work hard, but hard work coupled with honesty is justifiably rewarded.

As with most Arab-Americans, I am well aware of what life in America grants. But we live day in and day out trying to balance our own feelings of identity against the image that is perceived of us. After 9/11, I continued to let people know my origin, but my declaration was always combined with a justification or a joke.

I am having a serious identity crisis. I encounter prejidice as an Arab-American in the United Sates, but when I visit Syria, I struggle with repugnance as an American-Arab. Albeit, I have an ingrained pride in my roots. Arabs, like the Greeks and the Romans, were at one point in history the epicenter of civilization. At the same time, I try to understand where things went wrong. You could blame the Ottoman Empire, World Wars one and two, or the cacophony of events that followed. A plethora of reasons for the division of the Arab world in the middle of the 20th century come to mind. However, the fact we have to endure as Arabs willing to live peacefully and coexist is this: We can only blame ourselves.

Where is our Martin Luther King? Where is our Mahatma Gandhi? Or where is our Dalai Lama?

I pray for the people of London; I also pray for all of us. That one day we can look into each other’s faces and love instead of hate. That one day we can use non-violence to further peace instead of prevent war. That one day we can use inner peace to enhance our lives instead of save lives. And that one day we can focus on feeding the hungry instead of resolving the conflicts killing them..

I visited Damascus this past February. My father passed away after 88 years of living as large as any man I know. He was a prolific writer and poet writing more than 15 multi-volume books and encyclopedias about Arabic poetry and literature. He always spoke of peace and how it “can” be attainable. He said that people should focus on the beautiful things in life. Leave it to a poet to do just that. Being around Dad was like living in a fairy tale free of anything deceitful or ugly. Dad never had a problem with me adapting to this culture, although he did always say: “never forget your roots my son, it does not matter how tall and majestic a tree is, without roots; it will wither away and die.”

Dad: I will never forget my roots, and I will take it on as a mission in life to do my part in spreading peace on earth. Until all human beings respect and consider each other equal partners of this fragile planet, we will continue the suffering mostly inflicted upon innocent lives.

I will always be an Arab-American with a soul aching for peace.

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 2:12 pm  

Wednesday, June 27, 2007

My Dear Beloved Hyphen

My dearly beloved Hyphen
I hope this writing arrives
and you are doing well
Totally in charge of millions of people
Totally defining them
I did not have you for the first 18 years of my life
And while they were not empty years
They do not compare with the recent ones
When I did have you
You are actually what I am
I am you and you are mine
Even after my divorce five years ago
You chose to stick it out with me
I truly love you
You bring together two worlds
That are inherently opposed in so many ways
You are a bridge
You mold east and west
You theoretically analyze critical discourse with Diasporic proportions
You mend Olive trees with Azaleas
Hamburgers with shawerma
You connect the songs of Om-Kalthoom
With those of the Greatfull Dead
You make us a people who try to exist in peace
While watching the carnage mount
In our back yard
You allow us to vote
You let us have a voice
You grant us freedom
What is the cost to freedom anyway?
I wonder if I will have you for the rest of time
I wonder if you will be there for me
With your flat, always sleeping body,
When I fall in love again?
And will you let me use you
In my definition of myself?
Will you be there when my 15-year-old-son, Zade,
Accomplishes his dreams of becoming a lawyer,
A senator, and maybe one day the president?
Will you be there when my 11-year-old-son Dury,
Actually changes this world one day
Like I tell him he will do every day of his not-so-complicated life?
Will you be there?
When my seven-year-old angel Demi,
Otherwise known as Sunshine;
Grows up and finds the man of her dreams.
And when I give her away in her wedding
And when sadness and happiness merge together
As I have the first dance with her
And as her little feet rest on top of mine
And as we glide as one?
Will you hang with me as I grow older?
Trying to find peace
In an otherwise extremely fucked up world
Will you be there?
When I try to take my kids to see
The sand lot I grew up playing on in Damascus
With those colorful little marbles?
And as I look for beauty of souls
In otherwise ugly and chaotic surroundings
Will you still define me?
When I become a grandfather
A “Giddo” to seventeen little brats
Who love me more than they love their parents?
Because I will spoil them obsessively
And will you be with me
When I reach the end of the road
Will you go into the grave with me?
Will you be on my tombstone?
Or will you let me be something else
In my lifetime?
My dear little hyphen:
I bid you farewell for now
But just know
That I will always think of you
And if I don’t get to see it,
Please allow my children to revel in peace
Between the two worlds
You are letting them call their own.

posted by Karim Shamsi-Basha at 1:52 pm  
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