and then our exile

ambivalence towards words, alternately trying to weave a course through barraging thoughts and sickened by their sterility, prevalence, and the unavoidance of posture.

fathima on blogging and nostalgia; murtada on ramadan (1) (2); javed on idols; farooq quoting imam al-haddad; yasmine on the earthquake.

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as i was finishing my shift at the fast-a-thon booth on friday, someone from my philosophy seminar stood by the adjacent table urging people to join a pub crawl to support a rugby team. i watched, amused, as he approached passing caucasian females. "do you like meeting new and interesting people" and "i like your bag" and "you get to spend the evening with guys like us." it'll be a lot of fun.

driving home from taraweeh every night, groups of the gaudily-dressed roam whyte, bar hopping, laughing and having a lot of fun.

last year there were two main ramadan disappointments – that the syrian government does not allow individuals to perform i'tikaaf (ten-day retreats at a mosque), and that so many masajid recited only a few ayat in each rak'ah of taraweeh. this year though i find myself remembering damascus a lot, glossing over the hard edges and remembering the quiet purple blossoms which flowered near the end. every night of this month so far has been filled with fantastical dreams.

murtada asked what the brown biblical cloth wrapped around my head represented that day. "today, just constancy." "that's good," he ruminated. "what happened to justice and hope and the others?" "they were too much to handle at once." and he issued a challenge, to come to the MCE each night with a new hat. i accepted, but a few days later backed away, having realized that a) i didn't have that many hats and b) i would eventually move to hats with brims not conducive for sujood.

drifting yellow leaves characterize fall on campus, while in wuddistan poplars are already stark. silver in sunlight, dark grey under cloudcover.
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night driving on country roads strange, almost hypnotic – the dark outside encloses, only headlights swiftly drawing up the asphalt before. you cannot face the dark directly, just as you cannot directly gaze at the sun; your eyes grow fixed on the painted lines appearing and disappearing, pausing in the pale.