She is selfless with her love, unconditionally caring and tending to my every need and want. Whether it be a growling stomach or sleepless nights buried in books she was always there to make everything better. She is my backbone, the foundation to my everything. A timeless relationship that could never be erased. A relationship even Romeo and Juliet would be jealous of.

She was my first kiss, my first breath of fresh air, my first hug. The first woman to wipe my tears and tell me that everything is going to be alright. She embodies the memories I will always cherish. The only good memories about home. She taught me how to be a man, how to think out and how to react to things. She is why I’m alive, why I keep on living.

This woman is my mother.

We have always hated where we are and what we do. We have always hated many things. Life, death, love, work, food, the weather, or someone. Especially our parents and siblings. We have always fought and argued on the little things, because we’re bored. In spite of all what has been happening to us in the past 65 years, we have lived through it. We have survived.

We, all, have hated our parents the most when they said no when we desperately needed the yes, thinking that this three-letter word will bring happiness and satisfaction upon us, but I guess not.

We all have reached this level, at some point. A level at which we can’t tolerate anything anymore and wanting nothing but to go away and throw everything behind and start a new life.
Here’s to a new beginning.

And then we move. We tailor the life that fits us just perfectly, or so we believe. Then time passes and we start hating everyone and everything again, but one thing remains. Good times we had with people we love. Moments we will always cherish and remember. And this is the case of everyone and everywhere.
Nothing is warmer and safer than my mom’s arms.

I’m not sure what would my answer be when I’m asked about what do I miss about home the most but every time I think about it, the same voice that rang in my ears for 25 years, that bright smile, that lovely laughter, and that beautiful face all strike me at once. My heart aches a little bit and I feel a little burn.
I love you, mama.

A weird mixture of everything that’s wrong in the shape of a man that follows me wherever I go. Tracking me down, hunting the mere thoughts of happiness that are shyly approaching for a purpose, fighting to reach one goal, making me happy.

I don’t know where will I end up with this, neither do I know what to do. While ignoring is  sinking in uncertainty, willingly following the guide is as uncertain.

Beautiful colours and scents of coffee, smiley faces, and eyes full of hope. White like snow yet as black as coffee. Loud music, so empty, so wordless, pushing my thoughts towards the unknown hiding underneath a layer of undisclosed desire. The lust for the unknown.

I look deep down inside and I see ashes and thin pillars of smoke. An empty void that goes beyond my will digging deep down reaching the no end. I look around me and all I can see is what seems to be human beings. No faces, no voices, and no emotions. I don’t know what should I say or how to react.

Disrespect and dishonesty have reached beyond the sun, so enjoyable, so addictive. Then comes failure, or rather fear of failure. There is always a reason for every thing because everything happens for a reason, except for this. I write to fill the emptiness inside, because I do nothing better than this. Because it is all I have got and is usually where I want to be.

Soulless bodies walk around with bent backs and pale faces, swollen eyes and messy hair, let alone the unlatching colours of fabrics covering the emptiness in a shape of what seems to be bodies.

Fighting for someone’s cause because you’re privileged, or maybe because you speak better English. Claiming to be the best at what you do while realizing that you can’t do it because you lack the skills along with whatever is on the list.

The fear of going back to the starting point.  Of looking them in the eye and feel all this pettiness they carry within. Talking about you behind your back, calling you names, besides your new name, Failure.

Is it too late to go back? Is going back even considered an option anymore? It is not the time to regret because regretting things won’t resurrect the dead.

I am dead.

Striving to be the best, or a better person to say the least. Back-lashing oneself won’t help the case at all and usually leads one to depression from a side and angry at themselves from another side because they couldn’t do or should’ve done better.

This is my first time to write in the tube, or rather, in a moving place, full of noises and uncontrollable everything. I’m also writing with pen and paper, which I haven’t done in such a long time, even before I even started publishing my writings online. I look at my ugly hand writing thinking of what could’ve gone wrong and why am I doing this? Why am I writing?a

Have you ever questioned everything around you? Even your existence? The world might seem better somewhere else, but it’s not.

“This is a Victoria Line train to Seven Sisters.”

Torn between studying and learning alone in this cloud city, this is how I have been ever since I moved to London, the crossroads city that has a taste of every place in the world.

Upon arrival, or even before that. Probably in the stage of thinking of leaving home. Moving out to a different world where they’ll be looked at and treated as aliens wondering who is exactly the alien in a city established on the bodies of the indigenous ever since the white man arrived here thinking of expanding his settlement elsewhere on earth.

Grass is always greener on the other side of the road. We all, at one time, thought that leaving home and wandering the world looking for who we are and what can we do best, looking for a place where we would fit probably neglecting or blind folding the bitter truth: ain’t nothing like home.

This is me in London, experiencing life in this cold, dark city. Going through thick and thicker ever since my arrival struggling to make a place for myself in a society of strangers hoping to fit somewhere here or there somehow.

I don’t know where should I begin from, or where to end narrating this story, my story, or a man who loved his home too much to the point he couldn’t see a dim light of hope of prospering, who got fed up with all his surroundings, good or bad, craving for a change dying to kill the routine he has been living for longer than he could remember.

Should I begin from the day I was named a top class student graduating with distinction, cheered and applauded for by thousands of attendees, friends and family included? Or from how I lost my job a few days after that because my employer realized that I am of no use since I graduated hoping for salary raise but instead getting laid off?

Maybe I should begin from when I decided to leave home because life has become too unbearable for me to live this way thinking I wasn’t made for it, tagging myself as an alien just like the rest of the people here, and everywhere else that’s not home.

The beginning of my story is just like the end. Unknown, undecided, colorless just like so many things around me, you and everyone else.  The context, lying between what would seem to be a thick beginning and a thick tragic end.

One, at home, would think life abroad is much better. Sorry to burst your bubble but it’s not!

I miss home. I miss everything about it. Even the bad things.

]]> http://www.sigaza.com/clueless-beginning-undecided-end/feed/ 7 http://www.sigaza.com/watching-from-distance/ http://www.sigaza.com/watching-from-distance/#comments Sun, 02 Dec 2012 16:07:00 +0000 Nader Elkhuzundar http://www.sigaza.com/?p=952 Continue reading →]]> It has been so long since I last shared what is in my head with the rest of the world. It has been always difficult to form a thousand thoughts raging inside my head mixed with thoughtful emotions, random words, faces, places and other things.

Maybe the reason is because I don’t want to share that with anyone. Or maybe it’s because I am too lazy to write, or even the difficulty of finding the right words.

Let’s go back in time for a few days ago. Starting with the moment where the recent mercilessly inhumane aggression on Gaza started, where my family, friends and memories reside. The numbers resulted from an eight-day long aggression on civilians whose only fault was persisting and deciding on living on their land for no matter what.

Many of you know that I have lived in Gaza for twenty years with no breaks at all. During which, I have become the man you know today. I was born on the first Intifada, lived the second, and survived through countless airstrikes, invasions and continuous aggression till the day where I moved to London pursuing higher education, three months ago. It feels just like yesterday.

I am writing this and I am still can’t find the words that perfectly fit how I felt during the last aggression on Gaza, unable to even tailor my own words feeling the incredibly amazing weakness of language.

Living in Gaza was the easy part. Surviving (e.g. Cast Lead) was a matter of persistent and unbreakable determination to live and resist in spite of all the killing and destruction everywhere. But looking at what lasted for eight days, knowing that I am safe and no harm can reach me while family, friends and memories are at a very high risk given the fact that any second could be their last.

The mere thought of receiving bad news on any of them was haunting me leaving me sleepless, terrifying me to death every night. I could swear I could hear voices emanating from the darkness agonized, gnawing voices filled with black eternity of pain of what sounded like demons fighting among themselves.

No words would ever fit to describe how very terrified and worried I was during this time specifically. I know it is not the first time for this to happen. But it is the first time to happen while I am not in Gaza, knowing I am safe here, looking for afar. Worried, sad, and pale is how I felt and looked. I couldn’t do anything but read the news on what’s going on praying no harm will touch my beloved ones.

I am writing this with teary eyes and a shivering body. These ugly eight days none of us wished they had lived or even existed in this year.

A part of me is happy it all ended. But a bigger part is sad for all the people who have been killed, injured and had their houses destroyed. But regardless, Israel will never break our soul, nor will it kill our persistence.

I always think about what stopped me from writing so often like I used to but end up with a thousand meaningless thoughts and reasons in my mind. I don’t know if you blame me for not writing for such a very long time. I know I should’ve kept on writing no matter what happens. But sometimes life can get way out of control, and my life profoundly did.

I’m writing this as I think of a reason why am I writing and what is it that I’m going to write about? Should I write how very culturally shocked I am for all I’ve seen since I left Gaza? Or should I write about my experience? What should I exactly write about? Feelings? Experiences? Neither? Either? Something else?

A countless thoughts flowing into my brain working really hard to process any into something I can benefit from.

I left Gaza 33 days ago, during which, I’ve been through a lot of everything. The escalator, the tube, the bus, the taxi (which is very much different that what I’m used to from back home), huge supermarkets, laws, people, atmosphere, pubs, cafes, long food and drinks menus I couldn’t understand accompanied with this overwhelming fear of trying anything I don’t know because my stomach wouldn’t like it, and the difficulty of going to somewhere nice and trying to settle for seafood or something vegetarian because they don’t serve Halal meat.

Apart from this, I like how the community accepts the fact that some people don’t drink or eat pork. It makes me feel comfortable to a level. People would always assume that I don’t drink of eat pork for religious purposes but it honestly has nothing to do with it. I look at it from a personal perspective. Pork isn’t my type of meat and it’s scientifically proven that it’s not good for health, and alcohol smells bad and tastes horrible.

Although people would reply to that by saying they like to feel high and good and forget about their problems for a while but I would always reply back saying that forgetting about your problems by drinking isn’t going to solve any at all. Fact is, your problems will accumulate and life will be really difficult to endure gradually. If you want to feel high, you can eat a lot of food and smoke a regular cigarette and if you want to have fun, just go somewhere nice with people you love to be with. Problem solved!

The weather is cold. Autumn here is nothing different from winter in Gaza. I’m anticipating winter with fear slowly crawling into my heart. The incredible amounts of rain, the raging wind and the distance I have to talk from my house to the station to my campus and back. I look at it as taking a shower in public, free of charge! Don’t forget to bring your towel and shampoo with you.

There are so many things I want to write about but something I don’t know keeps pushing me away from it. I want to write how I feel and see especially that this is my first time to travel in my life.

I don’t know if I miss home, or if it’s still early to miss home. I don’t know if I will ever miss it. But I undoubtedly miss those close to heart.

It is vital that news stories are accompanied by first hand eyewitness accounts of what is happening in a region of the world.  Real life case studies form a crucial part of the tapestry of information that comes out of many troubled regions. In news stories we often hear what the leaders of a country and politicians think but what really matters are the views and experiences of people on the ground.

If politicians know that people will be ready on hand to publicize their genuine experience, whether it is good or bad, they might work harder to ensure people’s experiences are positive. They may work harder to ensure their pledges are fulfilled and they aren’t just paying lip service to be popular and win votes.

It is interesting and informative to read what the people of a region or country, whose life is very different from our own, are living like. These genuine accounts are priceless and should be publicized and accessible globally.

Often there is so much conflict in the world which our the daily news bulletins on the television or radio highlight, but unless it is a ‘big’ story they often lack an individual’s account of the effect, the problem or plan is having on them. The experiences of normal people trying hard to get on with their lives often drops off the news agenda. The world needs to hear what’s going on around the world from genuine down to earth people living there. News broadcasts about everything from famine in the world and natural disasters to conflicts need to include a personal account which are then much more powerful and effective in getting the message across.

Also other countries and cultures want to know how other people round the world are getting on, whether they have the same educational and job opportunities as they have. Knowing about local challenges in countries very different from our own, provides us with rich knowledge which is often not available on television broadcasts or newspaper reports. We want to share their simple pleasures and also their concerns and difficulties, as knowing about other cultures can make for a rewarding and fulfilling life.  One way to reach out to people and let them know is through blogs on the internet.

Nader Elkhuzundar is fundraising to raise money to study in England. Aged 24 he has had to study very hard over a number of years to achieve the qualifications needed to just apply for the place at Westminster University in London. Now his hard work has paid off, he has been accepted to on an MSc Business Intelligence and Analytics.  Unfortunately, however, he lacks the money to pay for the course.  Not easily put off and determined to find a way, he has launched an ambitious fundraising campaign to try to realize his dream of continuing his studies abroad. After qualifying he hopes to return to his country and become a journalist. That is his dream. Here is the story of a young man working hard to try to fulfill his and his family’s dreams and ambitions. Lets hope he succeeds, we must wish him well and every success in the future.

Other people around the world will have similar hopes and are working hard to fulfill them. Sometimes it is all too easy to get too involved with our own petty worries but we can only put them in perspective when we hear what is happening elsewhere, in more troubled countries than our own. We need to open our eyes to the struggles of others and for them to tell their story truthfully and factually. It is as important as knowing about living a healthy life as told by a trusted source.

We know what politicians think about situations they issue a press release and it is picked up by journalists who structure it into a story. It is much harder is to hear what life is like for the ordinary hard working person. We need real life case studies because if the world knows what is going on it will be much harder for politicians, the government and a countries enemies to hood wink the rest of the world into believing any propaganda.

المهم الفكرة مش هنا. أغلب الكلام كلام عابر ملوش معنى. ومش شرط كل اشي بنقرأه أو بنحكيه اله معنى. المهم توصل الفكرة، حتى لو فش معنى. بس برضه الفكرة مش هنا

تائه بين سطور كتاب قرأته ثلاث مرات حتى الان ومازلت احاول ان افهم .. لحظة انا ليش بكتب بالفصحة؟ المهم انه يا جماعة الخير صاحب بالين كذاب والأعمال بالنيات ولكل إمرء ما نوى (أقبُض)

برجع بقول الفكرة مش هنا. تفكيري مشوّش اكتر من تشويش الزّنانات على التلفزيون. انا مش عارف انا مين ولا ايش بدي. انت بتعرف؟ اه؟ طب انت كمان كزّاب.
احكيلك ليش؟ فكّر بينك وبين حالك وكون واقعي. حاول تحط حالك في كلمات توصف نفسك. حتلاقي حالك يا بتوصف حالك بكلمات كتير منيحة يا كتير منيحة. الا من رحم ربّي وكتبله كلمة او كلمتين عشان الحلال والحرام بس.
ونقعد نضحك عَ بعض ونقول والله انا لا أُوصف بكلام وانا فش زيي. طب كول خرا اجري. اللي أحسن منك ما حكوهاش

طيب انت ايش بدك من الاخر؟
ما انا قلتلك من الاول مش عارف. بدّي وبدّي وبدّي بس .. انت تريد وحماس تريد والباقي من عندك وازا زلمة اعمل اللي بدك ياه وشوف

مش راح اخُش في السياسة لأنها طريقة وعره وخرى وبتخلي الواحد غير واعي بالمرة لكل و أي حاجة بتصير حوليه، تحته، قُدامه، وراه، ومن كل الاماكن التانية.

باختصار، الحياة خرى شئت أم أبيت. أقلك شغلة؟ الحياة خرى خاوة وازا مش مصدقني اسأل اللي حواليك. حتى لو كنت أسعد الناس. دوّر في قلبك حتلاقي خرى. ومش عَ كيفك الشغلة.

“نحنُ شعبُ الأحا. شعبٌ لا يأتي إلّا بالخاوَة”

للحديث بقيه. أو لأ. مش شرط. بس خاوَة.