MAMA NOURA

Last time I wrote something that exceeded 140 characters was during my English high school final. However, this issue’s theme “Memory” hit a cord, so here goes.

One of the very earliest memories I have of my maternal grandmother, Mama Noura, was her letting my father know that elementary students are not prepping for their masters degree, and that they should go have fun with their cousins. Needless to say, we did.

My last memory of her actually semi-knowing who I was, was around 2 years back, when I stayed over for a month and every time she turned her head, she’d ask me where my mother was. Literally every time she turned her head. Around 20 times in a single setting.

We first noticed her temper really getting shorted by the second, and wouldn’t remember names. She was confirmed to have Alzheimer’s Disease around 5 years back. The grandchildren’s names were first to go. She looked at me and knew that she knew me. From the bottom of her heart loved me, but could’t call me by my name. That frustrated her, and I aggravated her when I’d help her out. “you think I’m crazy? You think I don’t know your name?” She was echoing her own fears.

The closest thing young people know about Alzheimer’s Disease is unfortunately Grey’s Anatomy. I’m thankful it’s has been raised to the younger demographic in a TV show as popular as Grey’s Anatomy. However, there is a misrepresentation of the disease as merely affecting memories. The viewer sees Meredith’s mother Ellis diagnosed to have Alzheimer’s, yet fully functioning throughout the show, except for the small part of not knowing who Meredith is.  Another lead character later on the show, Richard’s wife Adele, gets diagnosed. Again the viewer is lead to believe only her memories are affected, by not recognizing her own husband and falling in love with another man at the nursing home.

What Grey’s Anatomy forgot to represent to you, or tried and miserably failed, that it’s not just the memories that are taken away, it’s the cognitive function as well. It sucks the life out of you. It changes you, to the worst.

Your personality, your core, what people loved about you, what made you YOU, regardless of how cliche that sounds. Your loved ones will look at a hollow representation of a person that once was.

Grey’s Anatomy writers again chose to create this myth, and called it The Gift, another event in Ellis’s disease, where she literally wakes up one day, with her brain fully functioning. To the degree she’s disappointed in her own daughter she hadn’t found a cure yet. Because if anyone is capable of miracles, it’s Meredith. Why is that physiologically impossible? There are 2 main cells in the body that never regenerate— the brain and heart cells. Your loved one will never have a Gift. Your loved one will never wake up fully aware of his/her surroundings, because once the damage is done, it’s done.

What media or your neurologist won’t tell you is that by the end of it, you won’t recognize them. My analysis of what was once a decent show is a normal reaction due to the direct effect it has on my family members. How it gives them false hope, or doubt that maybe the doctors here aren’t doing enough. Because why is Mama Noura not acting like Ellis?

I’m here to tell you it is a dark path that many are walking, but few are speaking out about. To tell you that there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Their memories will fade, and so will their personalities. Albeit sad, every once in a while, a glimpse of them will shine, and that should suffice. My Mama Noura was borderline OCD clean, she still wipes her own dishes before using them. She still won’t wear anything that hasn’t been washed to death. She still refuses to eat alone. She still won’t eat or drink anything that isn’t burn-your-tongue hot. She can still wear her kohl and lipstick like a boss. She doesn’t remember how many children she has, but still calls the driver by his name.

 

I write this for one purpose, and one only: awareness!

First, People don’t change personalities, in any way, out of old age. The brain doesn’t work like that.

If your loved one started to become angrier or even calmer than usual, be alarmed.

If they started to forget more than usual, be alarmed.

If they developed a new social anxiety (in fear they’d embarrass themselves in public), be very alarmed.

There is no one single symptom I could point out, although I wish there was. At the very beginning of her disease, Mama Noura knew she was losing small bits and pieces, she knew she couldn’t remember if she had prayed or not. But she was far too proud to voice her concerns, and far too smart for her symptoms to show.

It took my family 3 years to take her to a doctor and diagnose her, which progressed the disease faster that it should have. She could've been better for longer.

 

Second, Alzheimer’s CAN NOT be cured.

I tell you and my family that still stuff her with so many drugs, in hopes she would one day wake up and call their names. It can only be slowed down.

Maybe out of subconscious guilt, my family took her to doctors around the globe. She has seen to doctors in 4 different continents. Regardless of the numerous times I’ve reminded them, that as much as I wish I was wrong, there isn’t a cure. If anything, all that traveling around exhausted her.

 

Third, it’s not your fault.

Mama Noura was the healthiest person I know; walked every day, ate her fruits and vegetables, which prevented her from the 21st century’s epidemics, hypertension and diabetes, but not from Alzheimer’s.

Don’t blame yourselves for something you did or did not do.

 

Fourth, love them no matter what.

Love them when they are unable to love you back. Love them when they hit you because they think you’re a stranger. Love them through sickness and health. Love the person they were, because that’s who they are. Hold onto the person you grew up loving and cherishing. Keep that person alive. At the same time, don’t let the disease halt your emotions towards them. They can’t help it, but you can. Love who they were, but don’t hate the person they’ve become.

I love my grandmother for so many reasons, but mostly for the sacrifices she made throughout her life. How she was a progressive thinker at such a conservative time. She is an illiterateorphan that married way too soon, yet managed to raise thinkers and influencers. She valued education above all else. She practically raised us and my cousins when our mothers were struggling with their studies. Any other woman of her age would have urged her daughters to drop it all for their husbands. Not my grandmother.

My greatest regret to this day that she never saw me graduate. She was so proud of me when I got accepted. I know she would have loved to be there, and I would have loved if she was.

 

Fifth, don’t let them know you know.

We’ve all misplaced our phones, called people by the wrong names, or prayed twice. There is a huge difference between forgetting, and knowing you forgot and can’t recall no matter how hard you try.

There are pamphlets on top of pamphlets on how to deal with an affected loved one, but it all comes down to the simple fact of letting them enjoy the memories and people as long as they can. If they asked if they’ve prayed, that means they don’t remember praying, which means you act like you know they haven’t, that boosts their confidence. Even if it means praying much more than 5 times a day. Unless it starts to wear them down, try to gently remind them they already did.

 

Sixth, it’s not about you.

As obvious as that may seem, it can be pretty hard to apply. Standing idle as a person you hold dear gets eaten away is difficult.

I avoided my grandmother for a good 2 years because I couldn’t fathom remembering her like that. So my smart plan was to see as less of her as possible. A stupid decision I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, because I preferred to cater to my feelings, than her needs. Also, miss the last few years she actually knew who I was.

 

Like most grandmothers, she simultaneously complained about our weight, and never stopped shoving food down our throats from the moment we came in. To this day, I’ve yet to try a better scrambled eggs sandwich with a side of mashed potatoes.

Maybe my grandmother’s memories have been eaten away by a disease we know so little about, but that shouldn’t happen to your loved ones. Be vigilant. Keep their memories alive.

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TEXT: LSM

MEMORY

in

It's a derelict space; a land of bygone wealth and broken stones. You meander along the laid path, letting the rain pelt you as the clouds pass by.

It's peaceful. Even magical, maybe. Just a little bit. And as the pitter patter of the waterdrops speed up on your umbrella, you close your eyes and see it as it once was, bustling with people and furs and nobility, with children and coal and bales of hay. With injustice and slavery and prejudice. You see a prince pass by, and a maid sweap the hearth. You watch as a mother quietly nurses her babe. You breathe in the wonderfully cold air, and add a fairy or two to the scene in front of you. Goblins underneath the grate. Ghouls in the highest tower. Gryphons descending from the skies to feast on the grazing sheep below.

And you smile. Because you can still see that world, the past one and the magical one. It's still in your brain, in the deep recesses of your mind. Age has not taken it away from you. Yet.

You sidestep a sprite that's sticking its tongue out at you. Step carefully over a toadstool house. And then your brother calls you from the bottom of the hill and you accidentally leave the place you were just in. But he's calling you to a perch on the cliff with a view that takes your breath away.

And as you stand there, with your brother, with your family, in a fog that the worlds would envy, you remember, again, that sometimes the real world is even better.

Sometimes.

(Quick! Look! That dragon is waving hello!)

 

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TEXT: JOHARA ALMOGBEL
ART: AZIZ

NOISE FROM THE RADIO

in

As a nocturnal poet, most of the lines I’ve penned stems from memories— and they usually follow the same range; painful, joyous, hurtful and ones that causes particular annoyance. It’s the fuel behind what I write. What my words thrive on. Most often, these memories are tied to how I view myself as an individual, which, if you read my work, can sometimes be pretty dark or self-deprecating.

Once I’m in that zone I built for myself, it can be hard to get out of it. To believe in myself, or to shrug off the dark thoughts I shroud myself in.

It occurred to me recently how these memories we collect as adults aren’t the only ones that should be counted.

On one of the gloriously clouded days that we’ve been having lately, I was stuck in traffic. The radio was turned up, and I tuned it from one channel to the next, shuffling from some boring radio commercials, to mediocre mainstream music, to a station that completely lost its signal. Suddenly one of the channels blasted an old song—and it’s always songs that snags at the memory.

Flashbacks may be a narrative device, but that doesn’t mean you can’t experience them in real life.

Back in my nerd teen phase, on pre-dating the marvelous invention of iPods, I had on my desk this old stereo I’d “borrowed” from my father (and I never gave it back). It was the typical long stereo, and took a fair bit of space on my desk, but I wouldn’t move it anywhere.

During homework or just on my free time, the earphones were plugged into my ears as I switched between radio stations. Whenever a song I liked came up, I scrambled fast—empty tape on the right side, and record.

I depended on that one tape, gathering music, a song recorded more than once, one on each side of the tape, and re-recorded when I got bored of the older ones.

I didn’t know that what I was doing at the time was making mixtapes (ah, what a thing of the 90s!).

This memory, when it came to me, reminded me of what I was at that age—not built on other people’s expectations. I was just doing what I could to listen to good music. I was doing what I liked because I liked it, and I didn’t care what anybody thought.

Why couldn’t I remember that girl anymore? 

Why is it so hard to be that girl anymore? 

 

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TEXT: ASMA A. J
AUDIO: SFX-LAB

هوية الذكرى

 
لا ينتمي إلى هذا الفوج المكون من عدد لانهائي من البشر، ولكن ينتهي به الأمر كل صباح ومساء في وسطه. توقف يوماً لوهلة، ورأى كل الأجساد التي كانت تتحرك لوجهة معينة كأنه يراها للمرة الأولى، تأمل الملامح التي أبدتها الوجوه، وأدرك أخيراً أن لا أحد منهم كان هناك بالفعل. كان كل شيء يدل أن كل واحداً منهم كان محلقاً في عالم آخر، يشكل حاجزاً بينه وبين كل ما يحيط به من ضوضاء. لم يدرك وجود الذكريات وماهيتها حتى ذلك اليوم؛ فهي العالم التي كان كل شخص من ذلك المشهد غارقاً فيه، دون أي مقاومة أو وعي. "قد يكون ما يشغل بالهم ويمنعهم من إدراك ما يحصل حولهم هو تفكيرهم بما سيحدث بعد لحظات، أو بأمر مستقبلي يبعد عشرات السنين" همس لنفسه، ثم ارتفع صوته قليلاً "لكن لا وجود للمستقبل إلا إذا وجد الماضي، كلاهما مرتبطان ببعضهم البعض. لا أعرف ما هي الذكريات، لا أعرف شكلها، ولا مخبأها الذي تنطلق منه فجأة على شكل دغدة في المعدة، وتجعلني أبتسم لنفسي لدقائق عدة. أو اختناق يجعل الوجود ثقيلاً، بطيئاً.

هي أحرف، هي كلمات، هي أشخاص، هي أماكن، هي أحداث تبنى عليها حياة كاملة..."

بدأ صوته يعلو، لكنه لم يشكل عائقاً لهذا الفوج الذي لم يكترث لكلامه، أو حتى ينتبه لوجوده. "هي البريق الباهر الذي يمر أمام عيني، ثم يترك من خلفه السراب المتلألئ، ويضيء العتمة، ويبهج قلبي قبل نومي، أو يكدره؛ فلا أنام، ولا أصحو، بل أبقى بينهما في غيبوبة. هذه الذكريات التي لا يحددها زمان؛ فما إن يحدث شيء فهو ذكرى، وإن لم يمضي على حدوثها إلا أجزاءً من الثانية. هي ما يجعلني ما أنا عليه الآن، وما سأكونه بعد أيام."

نظر شخص إلى عينيه، انتبه إليه؛ فضرخ مباشرة:"النسيان وهم لا وجود له. النسيان هو وسيلتنا لإقناع أنفسنا بأننا قادرين على إكمال الطريق. يجب علي وعليك، وعلينا جميعا أن نتقبلها مهما كانت مرَّة، وأن لا تجعلنا نتجاهل كل شيء مهما كانت جميلة ولا تُنسى." ما إن انتهى لم يجد من كان واقفاً، لم يدري أنه هرب ما إن بدأ بالصراخ.

هدأ قليلاً، ثم أكمل قائلاً:"لا أريد أن أنسى شيئاً. لا أريد أن أنسى شيئاً." نظر إلى الوجوه التي تغيرت مراراً منذ وقوفه، ابتسم لهم، ولنفسه. ثم عاد ليكون جزءاً من ذلك الفوج، المتوجه إلى بداية يوم جديد، والذي سيكون ذكرى أخرى إلى الملايين السابقة.

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TEXT: KHALED ALQAHTANI
ART: SARAH AHMED

 

FIRST FAST

in

July 1948, Beirut. The State of Israel is created. Britain withdraws from Palestine, formerly their territorial mandate. Fighting breaks out. Palestinians flee into Lebanon and Jordan. 

The ninth day of the ninth month finally arrives. My mother tells me we are at war, but I have seen only stars lining the night sky, heard only the tree frog sing outside my window.

Perhaps it is best we not contemplate what is happening at Beirut’s threshold because Ramadan calls us to refrain from talking gossip or even thinking anything negative about others. I try to stamp it from my mind.   

This is the first year that I am to fast, which I am of two minds about. I am flushed with pride to be mature enough to pay proper homage to Allah, but I am worried my stomach will get the best of me. It is strange to eat my breakfast before getting dressed, but I consent.

It being a Friday, I spend most of the day lying on the cool tile of the kitchen floor under the table, reading. My brothers are outside in the courtyard by the fig tree, but my mother’s declaration makes me uneasy. The thoughts of guns return. I continue to trudge to the courtyard and gaze up into the sky, yet my searching reveals only white puffy clouds. A dragon. A triangle. A lion. I wonder what a real lion would look like.

Zap! My brother’s football hits me in the temple, almost knocking me to my feet. I retreat before he can cuff me. I seem always to be in his way.

I prefer the kitchen with its stowed herbs, its promise of ashaa, dinner, with my mother already lining the dates on plates. I prefer my books. My father taught me how to multiply large figures in my head. He went to his office today in spite of our Holy Day, in spite of Friday. He is always at work. Yet I find I can do it by myself now. It comes easily to me, like a game. In fact, it is a game. The numbers curl in black lines across my mind’s eye, as though they were lining a page, literal and solid. Two times two will always equal four, no matter what Palestine is called.

My stomach growls and echoes. I am unfamiliar with this sensation. Each growl reminds me of the chopped vegetables on ice, but also of my pledge to Allah to keep the fast. I dowse the fantasy of a slice of cold cucumber, and I gulp down a full pitcher of water my mother offers instead.

“It is fine for a child of your age,” she informs me, but I raise one eyebrow in doubt. Even so, it is abominably hot for May. The tiles warm my toes as the sun pulls itself ever higher. I hear the strains of my brothers’ laughter and whoops, and wonder how they can be so active in this heat. How they can forget about Ramadan. How they can ignore the war. I wish I could take my vest off, but that is not an option in this home.

My thoughts drift toward the salty, cool bite of the sea when my mother calls me for midday prayers. I stand with pride next to my father and brothers as we face Mecca. My father guides me as I kneel and rise, kneel and rise. The sun will soon yield to the moon. Soon we will be breaking our fast. We will start with water and a few dates, and then we shall have a small feast.

“Are you certain you can make it through the afternoon?” my mother asks after we finish prayers. “Observing Ramadan in the seasons with longer, hotter days is more difficult, and you are young yet.”

“No, Mama, I can make it,” I assure her. I click my tongue against the roof of my mouth so it will not feel so dry. She ruffles my hair again and pats me roughly on the back. “My youngest, my baby, is almost a man,” she grins.

I grin back at her. She is my nine-year-old world. I want to make her proud. I want to make Allah, may His Name be praised, proud. I climb the fig tree, full of sweet-smelling fruit, to the roof to await sunset. I hold my belly in anticipation. The sky is blue and clear and hot. I must descend.

We study the Quran as the day grows old. I fidget in spite of myself when the longer Qur’an passages are recited. I usually love the lilt of words mixed with the space of breath in between. This Book is like music to me. Yet today the words about peace confound me, and my thoughts drift once again to what will happen to our country tomorrow.

Twilight finally avails herself to us. I am thankful as we pray. We are blessed. I jump up as the neighbors flood in for the evening meal. I scamper away from their greetings of Ma’brouk, their kisses of greeting. I can only run toward nourishment. I barely taste the food as it goes down.     

After the dates, bananas, olives, tabouleh, grape leaves, and a platter of cold meats await me. Food has never tasted so delicious, and it never will again. I know this to be so because today marks many more fasts, and I shall be stronger the more I practice Allah’s will.

That night, after prayers, I stare up at the new moon. Still no sign of bombers. Each year, at the end of Ramadan, we donate five gifts to the needy. It helps us remember the poor, just as fasting helps us remember the less fortunate. Perhaps we will take our traditional Ramadan gifts to the Palestinians this year. I wonder if there are any yet in Beirut. If not, where are they? I wonder how my mother will react to my idea of bringing the refugees gifts.

I hear her murmur to my father, and I sense the worry in her tone. I hear the tears in her voice. Is she weeping over the war? Surely not, our region is always at war. We were at war the year before I was born. Is she weeping over the people coming to stay in our country? It is clear to me that she has sympathy for them, but it is also clear that she does not want them here, with us. If we offer them gifts, they may want to stay. I wonder if Palestine is as beautiful as Lebanon. I wonder if the people crossing our borders miss their homes.

I think not. No land exists as beautiful as our country, full of mountains of cedar, aquamarine waters teeming with fish, clear, clean springs, its souqs overflowing with the scent of spice, its boulevards lined with red-roofed cafes. And my home that the breeze whips through even on hot days like this one, full of tile, bookshelves, rugs of every design—and love.

I creep to the door. I hear the words blight on the land from my mother and temporary from my father. What does blight mean? What does temporary mean? A day, a month, a year? Where are these Palestinians? I have yet to see them.

I continue to wonder if the Zionists will invade our country. Perhaps they are angry at the Palestinians and will come after them. A breeze flows though my open shutters, and I shiver in anticipation. I hope not. It is strange to me that my first Ramadan fast should occur at such a time of violence, that while we are feasting, people are crossing over with all their belongings on their backs. Perhaps with no food at all. Perhaps with no water.

What were they trying to escape? What could have possibly been happening to them for them to leave their houses? I cannot imagine having to leave mine—ever. If Islam means “peace,” I think, why must we fight at Ramadan? Why must we fight at all?

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TEXT: KATHRYN BROWN RAMSPERGER
ART: HANNAH KIRMES-DALY / BRUSH & BOW

THE PHANTOM MENACE

Now, I don't remember much
about the movie itself but I can still picture
his excitement as the opening crawl came up
and how focused he was on not missing a word
that he didn't care about the popcorn being spilled
or the mess he made because in that moment
he was nine years old too.

I wonder where all that excitement went.
I wonder when was the last time he was in complete awe of something.

Yet, there are days where I can still see flashes
of the person he used to be.

Days when he used to carry us over his shoulders
not letting us down till laughter escaped our throats

Does he remember any of that?
Does the cinema closing down where he took
us to watch all those movies means something?
Does the accident and the new car mean something?

I've spent years trying to make sense of this

and I think I know now
I think it was her
I think she wrecked him
and I have never been more ashamed of my name

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TEXT: NOURA ALZUBI
ART: SARAH FARHOUD

 

 

REPRESSED

 

 

i.

I remember it well…
The curve of your mouth,
Breathing syllables and unspoken
Rhythms soothing angst
Buried in trauma and self-deprecation.

 

iii.

I remember it well…
Two lovers in an unholy war
a mother’s indignation
Words flailing
To and from her/him/them
In storms of resentment
Tight-lipped reconciliation
And melodic rhapsody
In limbs intertwined.

 

ii.

I remember it well…
Fleeting moments of anger
And the crash of a finjan
Creating coffee stained fortunes on
Whitewashed walls
Shattering safety nets
Because who knew pain from kin
Could pierce you that way.

iv.

I remember it well…
The moment you uttered
‘I love you’
Only to end us
Three weeks,
Five days,
And three hours later.

 

 

 

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TEXT: NOUR SALMAN
ART: SANDRA

ROOMS

There's history
In the rooms
In scattered cutlery

A memory's projection
With every stain
With every imperfection

We're tiny dots
On an endless time-line
On endless thoughts 

Just like the ruins
We're frail
We're frail 

We will surrender
To our skeletons
To everything we remember

The walls didn't discriminate
Who was there or
Who felt hate

Relationships revocable
Is our past valid?
Is our past disposable? 

We lay sleeping
Under lost promises
Under the crumbling ceiling

My dear
We shall depart
We shall disappear

For dwelling on the past
Is for fools and
Is for poets who never last

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TEXT & PHOTOGRAPH:
MOHAMMED J. BELHOUL
INSPIRED BY:
LA DISPUTE'S ALBUM
ROOMS OF THE HOUSE