Her Thoughts:
I am transported years back to my wedding night. An entourage of makeup artists, hair stylists, and fashion designers were in my dressing room assisting me with my wedding preparations. I was 17 years old; a debutante into the real world. My life was like a perfectly illustrated photograph – I was Papa’s princess and my fancy was immediately translated into reality. In our family albums, my Papa and I were always seen in exotic places, venturing on some silly adventure – a fusion of culture and la dolce vita: Tuscana, Venezia, Prague, Seychelles, Singapore, Japan, Ireland – you pinpoint heaven on earth and we would be God’s pilgrims on a trip to marvel His magnificence. We never bothered with materialistic hedonistic pursuits. Mamma continually tried to posh us up into more aristocratic getaways like Paris and Milan. Papa and I would grumble and yawn at the old bores shopping down Champs-Élysées and Via Montenapoleone. She positioned our lives so that they can be glamorous in front of society. We were constantly in a conundrum between a masquerade and authenticity.

She slithers into a foxy crème dress, with lace trimmings on the hems subliminally teasing as they reveal part of her nude skin. The dress hugs her body like a lover making intimate love. Her hair had flirty twirls of soft curls, glimmering under the lights. An earring here, an earring there, and they dance with graceful movements as she rests her head to the right to add her signature pendant – a perfectly round, white pearl her Papa had given her. She took off her wedding ring and left it in the jewelry box. The mirror reflected a wicked smile before the lights went off.

Her Thoughts:
Sighs of awe ripple throughout the room. I felt like a pearl emerging from a tightly clasped oyster. My world had been a white canvas – I was ready to be painted with all the colors of the world. I was given a standing ovation when I entered the ballroom. A sizzling mixture of admiration, jealousy, yearning, and amazement danced across the different faces. The pianist filled the ballroom with her divine music. I felt like being transported into a fantasy; I felt like soaring up to the sky with happiness. I was alive. Mamma promised me it would all be alright.

What happens when you love someone so much and he dies? Does this love remain in your heart waiting and waiting for the next person to steal it? Papa’s death had left me lost. How could someone have so much love and not be able to give it away? Are tears flowing in my veins instead of blood? Are tears flowing in my veins instead of blood? After that, my heart slowly died. At that point, my Mamma took control of my life and heart. She said all will be alright and she set me up with the person she promised would make me happy. I yielded like a wounded child to a nurse… I stopped my education and started focusing on the new life she has scripted for me.

Life is one big play, complete with scripts, actors and actresses. Feelings come with effort. Puppets and dolls walk around; all of them lifeless. He was one of them. During the day, he acts like a proper gentleman, fulfilling his invisible social obligations. At night, he takes off his mask and sheds off his costumes. His words could freeze the Arctic Ocean and lacked the melodious flair he spoke with during the day. And his touch feels like a shockwave traveling through her. Lovemaking was a chore and was barren of emotions. Six minutes… was this really what the world went ecstatic for? Talks and requests went unbothered. ‘Spoiled brat’ was the only reply to a very basic need: love. Why…?

Her Thoughts:
Anger. The first sin committed against God arose from anger. It seeps into you very gradually until you get an explosive surge – rage that ravages relationships, lives, opportunities. They say that anger comes from fire… I felt it burning up my life very painfully while I sat there letting it burn and burn… to ashes. Funny how you submerge yourself wholly to a person, entrusting your heart with him and he withers it away with philandering wilderness.

My eyes sweep over our bedroom. Photographs of us lay lifeless in their frames. We journey through life collecting beautiful remembrances and encounter people who will later be special to us for retracing us to those unforgettable moments. Every person trots the globe, seeking his other half: to share their love, have their own families, and to ultimately make a difference in life. At the end of life, these faces in the photographs need not exist because they have been etched in our hearts. But, can you tell whether the smiling faces are indeed portraying their inner joy? Can you ever read the stories of their lives in their eyes?

A ravishing bouquet of white calla lilies lay on the centerpiece in the hall, with a card from my beloved:

Sweetheart, may I steal your heart
To hide it in mine
May I steal your dreams
To mingle them in mine
May I steal your desires
To add on to mine
May I steal you
To make you mine
May I?

How can you reprimand infidelity when love knocks on a married woman and the door was left open by her husband? I texted him back, saying, “I lost my teddy, may I sleep with you?”

Moral of the story: life is a test and people test our strengths. We must be mature enough to see the end destination where we will be compensated for our goodness. Unfortunately, without faith and accountability of our deeds, we lose ourselves to worldly lusts and desires; leaving us more lost than we were before. Believe me, you are more precious to God when you do not fall into sin and patience is surprisingly a beautiful, tranquil bath for the soul. God will always compensate you endlessly for your one moment of patience.

Moreover, I hope this story gives people a glimpse of how important marriage is as a commitment and promise to the partner that he/she will be loved, cherished, and cared for. They are not objects to be decorating your lives. My intention was not to offend people with this lurid account of an affair but just to show that it might give you short thrills that will never be enough.

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Memoirs of Sikka 84
Saturday, June 3, 2006

The inspiration behind Memoirs of Sikka 84 came from the effect of globalization on wiping out the distinctive identities in each culture, that make our world colorful and diverse. Globalization has been hailed as a movement to introduce American culture to the globe, with a lot of merits to that. Yet they had aksimanaged to create a false aspirational objective that causes citizens of the world to forget their roots, traditions, and their cultural makeup pivotal in diversity and instead aspire to be American to be approved as 'modern, forward-thinking, sophisticated'. You see Japanese teens doning baggy jeans, spiky hair styles, and twirling with invisible music. Arabs have started fading away from their sense of extended family, community, instead adopting a series of separated family units that do not connect with the rest of their family tree. McDonald's has even designed their cafe's architecture to resemble Chinese temples yet still luring Chinese consumers to shift from their traditional cuisine to a more American gourmet.

In this story, I ask the question: what is happening to our unique cultural identities across the globe?

Memoirs of Sikka 84
I sip the dark, bitter coffee, inhaling the sensual flavors that conjure memories of my times at the local majlis. My circle of friends would meet up every Thursday evening for a quick sip of gahwa (coffee) and catch up on each other’s lives, the jokes erupting raucous laughter, and the strong friendship bond that held us warmly and closely as a rich tapestry. Ah, that was close to 40 years ago. And here I am, reclining on a rocking chair at my son’s house, glory aging with my body.

It is close to 4 o’clock. Khaled, my grandson, has come back from school with an iPod in his ears, shaking his body left and right to an invisible concert. He looks at me and waves his hand, “Yo, gramps!” he says with a casual kiss to the air. And he leaves.

He is getting ready for another outing with his friends; a group of boys and girls from his school who go out every Wednesday afternoon for a movie and dinner. They once passed by to pick up Khaled, and I got a peek at the lifestyle of our emerging Emarati generation.

I opened the door and saw 2 girls laughing wildly with 2 other boys. “Yes?” I interrupted. They immediately froze, and one of the boys I knew, Saeed, asked me for Khaled. He also introduced me to Khaleefa, Mariam, and Hind – all classmates of Khaled. They were wearing Western clothes you find at those garish fashion outlets like Berschka and Sixty, no traces of our renowned Emarati thowb and abaya/sheila. Khaled turned up a few seconds later and they all jumped into the roaring Porsche and into the free world.

Ah, could I label it as young love? That treacherous passion that enflames our young ones into being seduced by glitzy images of perfection, whilst it is merely an image painted by the canny media. Hind is Khaled’s girlfriend. This is the girl he has broke a fight with his parents for. The girl he has spent countless hours chatting on the phone to, dating every weekend, and proclaiming to be the love of his life – he is only 15 years old. And this is not the first girlfriend.

I close my eyes and I see the image of my late wife, Amina. I remember glimpsing her in her father’s home. My heart felt bound to her from the first sight. Her luminous aura enveloping her like a warm halo, so pure was her demeanor, I felt her belong to me from the first glance. I worked really hard the next year to establish myself so I can be worthy of my darling’s heart. My family proposed to hers – and they agreed. We got married 3 months later, the crowds of relatives clapping for us in the background, all happy for our blessed union. On our first night, I confessed my love for her, and she confessed hers as she passionately, silently prayed to God to bring me to her. I instantly fell in love with her chastity and her faithful heart. We lived in Sikka 84 and had a beautiful marriage…

I take another sip of my coffee – it has gone cold. Could I compare it with life these days? Cold, whimsy, fleeting. People ashamed of their essence and trying their best to shed their past traditions, the identities their forefathers have ingrained for generations and proudly displayed to other nations. My grandson, today, is wearing American clothes, speaks with an American accent, studies in an American school, and lives an American lifestyle – where has his Emarati identify found a home in his heart?

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60 Seconds of Fame
Tuesday, May 2, 2006

Her head reclines gracefully as she poses for the cameras. Her bewitching smile is comfortable and confident; well-earned for her miscellany of achievements. She is covered in glitz, her aura shimmers with glamour – and the whole world extols her every step, frivolous or benevolent. She was born to be a media darling.

The media is devoted to peppering celebrities’ lives with allure and grandeur. This elite clique gets addictive attention from the public and rigorous chasings from the paparazzi hoping that their one photo click will yield them enough dollars to pay a year’s rent in upscale New York.

I feel like the child boldly confessing that the Emperor is naked.

While these groups are rewarded for trivial and vain deeds, are we suggesting that other ‘average’ people’s deeds are discounted? We are rewarding a celebrity for donning a Vera Wang evening dress at the Academy awards, or showering another with kissing praises on her latest novel on how she became a bubbly actress earning millions. It’s a vicious addiction that has chained the public, entertainment industry, and media under a controlling fist that denotes them as mega brands worth your bow.

What about the stories of real lives? People who go to work everyday in order to feed a morsel to their families. Mothers who decided to sacrifice their careers to raise their children in a loving, closely-knit family environment with all amenities provided. Nurses who keep vigil on patients. Writers who inspire readers and give them their daily pearls of wisdom. Construction workers who build awe-inspiring skyscrapers and gardeners who design picturesque landscapes. Cleaners who stay all night washing the streets and having it spotless by next morning. University professors who build the minds of tomorrow's leaders. The list is endless.

These people’s lives are not covered in trendy magazines nor TV clippings. Can we say then that their deeds have gone unaware and unrewarded? Does everything need to be covered by the media, given a kiss of approval by the public for it to be considered a deed well done?

I feel that power is given too much on a select few groups that imply others are not equally, if not more, deserving of recognition and appreciation for their jobs.

Somebody has to stand up and cry: the Emperor is indeed naked. And yes, your average Joe keeps the world functioning as perfectly as you see it everyday.

60 seconds of fame - is it the acknowledgement you need for glory?

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