A List of All Characters in My First Novel Ever

My debut novel, which is called "No Ravens Fly in Heaven", should be finally completed within a month or so from now. After I thought that I had finished it, I had a dream one night and decided to rewrite numerous parts in the novel based on that dream. I actually created new characters, vanquished others, deleted an entire chapter, merged others, and did an extreme makeover in terms of the general themes within the novel and characterization. Here's a list of all the main and secondary characters in the novel:

• Raven Ameer: A 35-year-old, antisocial, recluse contract killer whose past is shrouded in mystery. He's obsessed with music, writing, alcohol, and killing. Multiple inner conflicts within are reignited upon the botched kill of Harry Hazle. 

• Matthew Edwards: A shrewd, workaholic detective in his late forties with almost no social life. Raven becomes Matthew's obsession, when the former becomes a suspect in the gruesome homicide of Harry Hazle. 

• Hashem Ameer: Raven's non-biological father.

• Synthia Castiavo: A 33-year-old, Russian psychologist. She's the therapist to whom Raven goes seeking counseling when he fails—for the first time ever—in executing a kill properly and professionally. She gets to know everything about Raven except for his job as a hitman. 

• Mr. James: An enigmatic person with many unrevealed details pertaining to his persona such as his real name and age. He's the man who brings most of Raven's customers. He and Raven have never met in person before; they only communicate via emails and occasional phone calls. 

• Harry Hazle: A small-time, young drug dealer, but with a fearless heart. A rival of his hires Raven to take him out. Raven kills Harry, but after an unpleasant encounter that changes everything. 

• Frank Adams: A young detective in his late twenties. He's Matthew's trusted partner and friend. 

• Johnny "The Red Axe" Rozales: An infamous, cold-blooded mob leader who is quite well-known for his disturbing, remorseless, criminal acts. He runs the drug scene in several areas in New York.

• Fredrick Riggaly: A Captain in NYPD. He's Matthew's ill-tempered boss. 

• Rogero Santoury: A 70-year-old multibillionaire, Italian businessman. He and his son are the last members of the Santoury family in Italy and abroad, but the two are estranged from each other. 

• Marlow Santoury: A young, drug addict living in New York who leads a quiet life. His father, a well-known, multibillionaire, Italian businessman, lives in Italy and the two haven't been talking to each other for more than six years. 

• Emily Baldwin: An easy-going girl in her late twenties. She Synthia's best friend.

• Andrew Failey: A car-showroom owner in his late thirties. He's Synthia's ex-boyfriend who's not willing to move on. 

• Mrs. Deborah Sanders: A talkative, elated, seventy-something-year-old lady. She's Raven's meddlesome neighbor who always disturbs him with undesired small talks. 

• Ali Sadeq: The Imam of the mosque to which Raven seldom goes.

• Eddy: The bartender at Raven's favorite bar. 

• Randy: The receptionist at the motel where Raven brings the hookers with whom he has one-night stands.

My Liver Hates Me So Much

To become the greatest writer of all time, follow these three simple steps: first, find your muse; second, don't fall in love with her; and finally, don't propose to her.


Yes, you're absolutely right—I'm fucking wasted again; and my liver is getting sick of it...literally.


Stop scrolling down; this is the end of the entry.

I wish you all a blessed Friday...

Friday is the day on which nothing operates properly: my body would always be infested with torpidity, and it's a ritualistic thing on Fridays regardless of how wild or tranquil the night before was; most shops would be closed all day long; the stuff they put on TV would be the most boring ever; and finally, my creativity rate—for some unknown reason—declines significantly on these allegedly blessed days.

For instance, apart from this valueless blog entry, I haven't been able to write anything. Well, I did write a few lines for my novel this morning, but I had been having a prolonged conversation with myself all week about the importance of writing two thousand words on Friday for the novel to complete the sixth chapter; and when Friday finally came, I settled for only fifty instead of the two thousand words with which I had promised myself. And by the way, the only promises I break without dither are the fragile ones I make to myself.

I then resorted to music, which is something that almost never lets me down, but I couldn't really savor any of the dreary tunes my pale fingers on the cold keys were making. I then listened to some classical pieces composed by the greats, Franz Liszt and Beethoven, and that was unquestionably the topmost highlight of my day. Mankind will eternally be in debt to those guys for their melodic miracles with which our lives go on.

Eventually, when I ran out of my usual options, the thought of exploiting my time positively by doing some useful things—even if they were too mundane and inartistic—crawled into my lethargic mind. I thought about having a shower to dispel that slight smell of stench blanketing my body, or at least shaving my creepy beard, but I found out that my physical laziness was even more severe than my mental one. I honestly couldn't even tidy my desk; I only cleared some space for my laptop to be able to write this entry.

Man, I fucking hate Fridays religiously.

When Fate Deviates

On a gelid night in one of the coldest Junes we had ever had in Jordan—the country that is located at the center of a sanguinary turmoil—my childhood friend, Majdi, asked me, "Do you remember Mohammed Abu Alia?"

We were sitting inside my car, which was parked in front of a cliff overlooking Zarqa, a city to which the entire world had been oblivious until it was publicized by the notorious Jihadist Abu Musab Al-Zarqawi. That initial question led to a swift exchange of subsequent questions and answers between me and Majdi. I then came to realize that Mohammed was one of our colleagues during high school, and he's currently in Syria fighting alongside Al-Nusra Front. If Majdi hadn't shown me a YouTube video in which Mohammed Abu Alia was giving a pep talk to his comrades in Al-Nusra Front, I wouldn't have believed anyone telling me that Mohammed—the guy we had known for years—has turned into a jihadist.

"Nobody knows if he's still alive or not," Majdi, who once was Mohammed's best friend, said in a joyless tone of voice.

Unlike Majdi, I'd never been a best friend of Mohammed, but he was a well-known student in high school thanks to his astounding skills in soccer. However, I didn't need to be that close to him to realize he'd never ever think of joining such a paramilitary group. He was a temperate Muslim; he had never shown any signs of being interested in jihad, martyrdom, revolutionism, or any other convoluted concepts at which religion and politics grotesquely overlapped.

But Mohammed was neither the first nor the last person whose mindset had undergone an "extreme" makeover. My city—ever since the downfall of its most infamous "warrior", Abu Musab—has been witnessing an alarming increase in the number of young men abandoning their homes to actualize their distorted dreams of becoming intrepid jihadists defending the defenseless in the name of that omnipotent God for whom they're willing to elatedly sacrifice themselves in Iraq and Syria. Almost each and every single one of them ends up being a pawn effortlessly controlled to serve slightly superior stooges who serve masterful puppeteers with unrighteous agendas. The Jordanian government has been trying—in vain—to conceal all information related to this unnerving issue of youth joining "terrorist" organizations. Not a week passes by without a news story or an article about one of those men getting published on the internet by independent, local, news websites or bloggers.

In an attempt to explicate this choice these individuals made, one of the opinions argues that these guys had no bright future, and that they were fitting for such outcome, but that's absolutely incorrect. Mohammed Abu Alia, among tens of others about whom I read on the web, refutes that theory. He was an academically distinguished student and a top-quality athlete. Another opinion says that Islamic devoutness paves the way for a darker ideology to unfold in later stages, transforming the worshipers into merciless executioners, but that's also incorrect. It is, indeed, a possible result for a Muslim to metamorphose into a terrorist, but it wouldn't be fair to blame Islam for that; it's the follower of the religion who should be solely blamed. There are also tens of stories about Christian, Jewish, and Hindu extremists; and similarly, the faith itself shouldn't be the ascription of any atrocities committed in its name. The third and last opinion, out of the most common ones, states that this problem is attributed to the aforethought, systematic, political impoverishment of youth. The empowering, constitutional amendments have been too scarce; and the poorly fabricated, theatrical, political pluralism is not quenching the thirst of any intellectual citizens who feel deprived of their right to create a healthy, political atmosphere; and consequently, people in Jordan can't be deemed bona fide contributors or practitioners in the realm of politics. This inexperience in politics, according to the supporters of this third opinion, made the youth fail to politically examine the situation in Syria, which resulted in the erroneous decision of partaking in the armed conflict. I'd really love to support that last theory, as I've always felt politically marginalized by my government, but it's too unrealistic and prejudiced against the government.

I've been contemplating a lot recently, trying to designate a logical rationale behind this phenomenon, but I only came up with an arbitrary one: there's some sort of sickening, ungodly, twisted glamour in the story of Abu Musab; and it's that glamour my fellow countrymen have been falling for in large numbers.

Irrespective of the real reasons, I can't help but bemoan the potentially great man Mohammed could’ve been if he had not taken a deviated route within the course of his fate.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

For reasons that should be fucking obvious, all names—and some minor details—mentioned in this article are fictitious .

Questions People Ask You When You Turn Thirty

Two days ago, I turned thirty, which is the acme of a human being's lifespan according to my own beliefs and mathematical logic, as the average lifetime of a male human is roughly sixty-eight years. And thus, reaching that momentous stage prompts people to ask specific questions. It's their twisted way of analyzing you and judging your character.

I personally have been asked the following question at least thrice so far: "What [the fuck] have you achieved so far in your life?" The phrase between the square brackets was only added by my best friends; and it's worth mentioning that the accentuation on it was too resonating, which denoted a twisted mix of genuine care and friendly derision. It's not an easy question to answer at all, I can tell you that. If I ask myself that question, however, I wouldn't hesitate at all to confidently answer as follows: five original piano pieces; more than forty songs written, produced and performed by me; fifteen short stories; and one novel (I know I haven't finished the novel yet, but I will within a few weeks. I know I keep saying that, but this time I'm being sincere. I know I said the exact same thing last time as well, but this time I'm being sincerely sincere!) However, in a real world where success is an assortment of mundane accomplishments ranging from having an insanely boring—but highly lucrative—office job to having your own house where you and your own family live, all of my nonsense I daringly call "achievements" is valueless. It's all about standards, Abdallah; it's all about standards, irrespective of how much these achievements mean to your mellow heart.

Another important question my fellow humans asked me was: "What [the fuck] have you learnt about yourself during the past thirty years?" Giving a full answer to that question in a blog entry is beyond impossible; I need tomes to say everything I want to say. However, I'll mention three fundamental things succinctly: I've learnt that death is not as terrifying to me as it is to most people. I have also learnt that I can always rely on music and my words to elevate me when I'm down. And finally, I've learnt that there isn't a problem—no matter how gargantuan it is—that can't dissolve in a glass of Stolichnaya on the rocks.

"Are you getting married soon?" was another question that people obtrusively asked me. I mean, it's okay to be asked that question by your mother, best friend or older brother—actually, no; your older brother doesn't have the right to ask you that. Anyway, the answer I gave to that question was: "Would your sister be interested in a one-night marriage?" As if that would be a euphemism to "one-night stand." But seriously, marriage isn't something you put much thought into…it's just…it's just something you go for simply when you find the one; the person with whom you want to foolishly squander the remainder of your lifetime. I found that person a year ago—she said no.

The last question I was asked was: "Is there something you've done that you now regret?" Now that's a fucked up question. Why would you remind someone of all the imbecilic decisions he or she has made? A question like that merely aims to immerse the person in the quagmire of their shitty judgments. My answer to that question was: "Yup—getting to know you."

Fifteen years ago, Bashar Al-Assad came to power...

Today is a memorable day in the violently volatile history of Syria—it's the day on which Bashar Al-Assad, the fortuitous successor, came to power after his father died of a heart attack. Fifteen years later, the ophthalmologist—who was fatalistically propelled into the realm of politics for which he had never had any penchant—finds himself in an utterly unenviable situation.

The pivotal event that caused the abrupt deviation within the course of Bashar's life was a car accident on January 21st, 1994 that led to the sudden death of his eldest brother, Bassel Al-Assad; the awaited inheritor of his father's dominion in a republic where the president's powers were more plenary than those of most monarchs in the world. The vague circumstances around that fatal car accident, which induced various stories of an assassination plot and drunk driving to be circulated among Syrian citizens in exceptional quietude lest they're heard by the government, vanished soon; and the forbidden chitchats related to the heir's death were superseded by a far more momentous question: who will be the next "eternal" president when the current "eternal" one dies?

Although the regime had been inculcating the concept of Hafez' immortality in the people's minds for more than two decades via introducing slogans and chants such as "Forever, forever; the immortal leader shall be Hafez Al-Assad" to be recited in morning assemblies at schools, the inopportune demise of Bassel bluntly reminded the Syrian people of the ineluctable mortality of their president and his entire offspring. That wakeup call resulted in the aforementioned question, which had only two possible answers at the time: Maher or Bashar; as Majd, the youngest of the four brothers, was excluded due to mental health issues. Despite the fact that Maher was younger than Bashar, the former was the more probable choice, which was ascribed to two main reasons: first, Bashar's willful withdrawnness from politics, and his utmost focus on his prospective career as an oculist; and second, Maher's incredibly vast experience in both military and political fields when compared to that possessed by his brother. However, and against his wife's desire who had always favored Maher, Hafez picked Bashar to become the heir apparent for reasons of which no one is certain. A lot of speculations suggested that Maher's ill temper and rigid mentality wouldn't be suitable traits for someone running the country; therefore, Hafez chose Bashar.

After his brother's death and upon his father's request, Bashar had to quit his ophthalmology studies in London and travel back to Syria, where intensive measures took place to militarily and politically prepare the succeeding president who knew nothing about politics or presidency. Six years later, Hafez died of a heart attack, establishing with certitude the unreasonableness of the chants that had been wearing out millions of vocal folds for more than twenty years. And then, quite prematurely, Bashar was the country's cynosure. In the year his father died, Bashar was only 34 years old—six years younger than the minimum age of the republic's president as stipulated by the constitution. But after a swift, cockamamie, constitutional amendment that dropped the minimum age of the president from 40 to 34 to fit his age at the time, Bashar Al-Assad ran for president unopposed and won 99.7% of the votes, smashing his father's record (99.6%) and becoming his successor. He officially assumed power on July 17th, 2000.

Bashar was haunted by the fact he was occupying a position in which he didn't belong or earn. He felt rejected, for Bassel had always been the father's—and to some degree, the nation's—favorite. And when the eldest brother died, it was Maher and not Bashar, who was the mother's and the political analysts' favorite presidential candidate. And above all, Bashar had never been interested in occupying the family's throne. Consequently, there was immense, psychological pressure applied on the callow president. The pressure exacerbated by his nonexistent experience in that field of business, but within a few months, he would realize how easy it was to run a country adopting oligarchy.

Out of their desperate hopes for a better future, Syrians disregarded the undemocratic process upon which their new president came to power. They were not that bothered with the tailor-made constitution or the fact they'd never be ruled by someone whose last name wasn't "Assad"; they actually saw a promising future in the young president who described himself as a "reformer". All those hopes, however, gradually faded away; as the young president got involuntarily remolded by the unyielding regime governing the country and the stringent ideologies that have never believed in providing the people with any margin for freedom. The incessant suffocating measures reached the climax in 2011 when the revolution erupted in Syria, joining other aggrieved nations in Arab Spring.


Four years later, Bashar is still clutching at the bloodstained throne with tenacity; ignoring the death toll that has reached more than 200 thousand people, the five million refugees who fled the country, and the eight million citizens who got displaced within the country.

Raven meets Matthew for the second time...

This is another excerpt from my novel, "No Ravens Fly in Heaven". It's one of my personal favorite scenes, which is the second encounter between Raven Ameer; the antisocial contract killer, and Matthew Edwards; the tenacious detective.

The echo of Synthia's words serves as a concomitant tune while Raven is driving back home. An unexplainable urge to rejoice knocks hardly on his parched mind, so he caves in and just stares at the invisible air with a steadfast head and smiles while the bright headlights of the cars coming from the opposite side illuminate these emerald eyes of his, which have been drenched in lightlessness for days. He gets to his favorite bar enchanted, but without being aware of the fact that Matthew is dedicatedly on the tail.

Raven walks into the bar in steps of utter liveliness. He pulls a stool to sit on and then softly calls the bartender who is just another decorative friend of his: "Eddy…"

"Hey…so, you're still alive!" Eddy says with a cynical, merry voice.

"I guess I am." Raven responds with less merriness.

"Where have you been all these days, man? I haven’t seen you since the three Bloody Mary's you had three weeks ago."

"I had a fortuitous quandary that kept me away."

Eddy smiles generously and then says: "I'm glad you're back. So, what would you like to start the night with?"

"A vodka martini."

"And the same for me." Matthew says, as his engrossing eyes eerily eyeing Raven's.

"That's an excellent choice, detective." Raven, who is struggling to conceal his daze, says with a not-so-consistent rhythm of voice.

"Really? Then I guess I'm lucky. I've never tried this drink before." Matthew says and then pulls the stool to Raven's right and sits on it.

"You'll develop a declamatory predilection for it." Raven says, as he begins to revert to his usual self. Matthew looks at Raven, but remains quiet.

Uncomfortable with a wordless response, Raven prompts his unwelcome, sudden, unsettling companion to engage in a conversation by asking him: "Any luck with your nightclub case?"

"Big-time!" Matthew says before he lights up a cigarette, cuddles it with his lips, takes a lengthy drag and then places it back between the sturdy fingers of his left hand. He then asks: "Wanna smoke?" with his pack of cigarettes extended towards Raven.

"No, thanks...I don’t smoke. So, have you found a major lead?"

"Even better than that – I found the killer."

"Really?"

"Ah-huh, and I'm talking to him right now."

An uncontrollable smile wraps Raven's face, contrasting the trembling within, and then he says: "That's an acutely awry assumption, detective."

"Are you good at visualizing things?" Matthew raises an unforeseen question.

"Yes, I am, to a certain extent." Raven says and puts out his smile.

Eddy brings the two drinks. Raven ambivalently takes a sip.

"Great…" Matthew says, pauses and leans sideways, placing his right elbow above the bar to form a prop that ends with a fist supporting his right temple while his left hand is holding the cigarette whose whirling smoke is tangling the explicit looks exchanged between the two. After a few seconds of speechless ganders, Matthew begins to talk tranquilly:

"Now visualize this: a seven-year-old boy wakes up at two o'clock after midnight to the muffled screams of his mamma. He jumps out of bed, tightly holding his teddy bear, and then innately hides under the bed. 

He can hear something...someone is coming. 

The sound of the incoming footsteps is growing louder, and it's certainly neither his mother nor his father who's approaching his room. His parents' walks were quite distinguished. His mom would walk lightsomely with barely any noticeable sound, while his father's walk was more impactful; with steps that strike the floor with fullness. Those footsteps, however, sound like an intimidating, strange, never-heard-before mixture of the two.

The door opens while the boy's heart is racing. He grabs the teddy bear violently against his chest, hoping it would buffer the heartbeat. The man with the bizarre footsteps' sound gets closer to the bed. The boy holds his breath while he's examining the man's boots with wide-open eyes. A couple of minutes pass by, and then the man is convinced that no one else is in the house; so he leaves.

The boy eagerly, but with utter caution, crawls from under the bed, stands on his barely shivering feet and then goes to his parents' bedroom. They're both lying lifelessly in their bed whose sheets have tuned into crimson. The blood is still cascading, gushing out of their slit throats while their dilated eyes are gazing at each other, bidding farewell.

Any kid at his age put in that position would burst into tears and probably scream hysterically, but that boy does neither. He slowly walks around the bed; as if his eyes are savoring that scene of his freshly slaughtered parents. He's finally saturated, and then he goes to the phone and dials 911. The operator asks about the emergency and the kid says: 'my parents just got killed with an extremely sharp knife by a lefty, fairly tall, blond man wearing dark-blue jeans and brown boots with black laces,' and then he gives the address.

A few days later, the seven-year-old managed to identify the killer from a lineup. All what the kid needed was to watch and listen to each one of the suspects walk. Unsurprisingly, the killer was lefty; as the boy had deduced it from the mother's defensive wounds. He was also blond, matching a fallen hair the kid saw in bed. The police also found those boots with the unmatched laces when they searched the killer's place. There was still some blood on them, which led to his indictment.

During the trial, when the guy was asked why he did it, he simply said that there wasn't anything interesting enough on TV that night, so he decided to kill his boredom by killing someone. A couple of months later, he got executed, and only after that, the little boy finally cried over the death of his parents. He somehow was able to postpone his grief until the murderer was found. He cried retroactively, and he surely shed a lot of hoarded tears. Some said that he had developed a mental condition from which he'd never recover.

But guess what? He did recover! And he grew up to become a detective, vowing to take out every piece of human trash and make the world a cleaner place; a place where kids get to grow up with their dads and moms. 

Till this day, he's still having dreams of that night. In the dreams, however, instead of being calm and investigative, he cries instantly…" 

Matthew adjusts his posture, sitting upright, and then grabs the glass with his right hand and takes a sip. He then daringly looks at Raven and says in a daunting tone: "I don't know about you; but personally, I believe that someone like him was born to put an end to psychotic, heartless, barbarous, murdering motherfuckers such as yourself."

Diary of a Lone Commuter {May 10th, 2015}

Summer is officially here; it's been confirmed by my wifebeater. It's now completely glued to my semi-fleshed back that is sweating nonstop, which is downright repulsive. I don't remember whether I have mentioned anything before in these entries about how much I hate summer, but even if I have, I'd like to emphasize: I fucking abhor summer.

To be fair, though, this bus I'm on is worsening the problem. It's so ancient that it might break down at any given moment. So, having the air conditioner turned on is just a pipe dream. That's why it amazes me that the majority of people prefer summer over winter; you can easily overcome cold by wearing a jacket or a thick blouse plus a jacket if it's extremely cold, but on really hot days, you'd never cool off even if you're wearing nothing but your underwear. Almost every mundane activity is ten times better and more enjoyable in winter than it is in summer: eating, sleeping, walking...dreaming!

There's a truly alarming sign about our male society that I've noticed lately and it's evident in the bus, too. Men's individuality is almost extinct! As I look at the passengers, I see frightening similarities between them in terms of appearance. One lazy motherfucker couldn't endure the hardship of shaving his beard daily or every couple of days, and now it's a "cool" trend to just let it grow shabbily. More than 90% of all guys I see on a daily basis have the same look: shabby beard, short hair drenched in gel or wax, huge sunglasses even if it's cloudy and a poorly ironed, not-fully-buttoned shirt. Grow a distinct character for fuck sake. I know that outer appearances shouldn't be that important and that focus should rather be on the inside of those young men, but based on my 25-year experience with the males of my society, their inside is even less versatile than their outside. Once everyone starts growing his hair and shaving his beard regularly, I'll make sure to get my hair cut and grow my beard to remain distinguishable. It's really one of my wildest nightmares to be typical.

I was supposed to buy a car by the end of last month, but the purchase has been postponed to the end of this month due to financial reasons. I'm still a bit sad that I won't be able to write these entries any more, but that sadness will tail off when my car starts saving me effort and time; and the latter is priceless at this phase of my life.
That's it for today...
Peace.

Diary of a Lone Commuter {April 21st, 2015}

 
I'm in excruciating pain, physically and mentally. It was a dreadfully exhausting day at work today; I can't wait to get back home.

I haven't been writing as much as I should lately; especially for my novel, but I'm glad that I always have another outlet whenever my words fail me -- my music.

I've been listening and learning to play a lot of Arabic songs on the keyboard. There's one particular song that I have listened to more than a hundred times during the last couple of months. In addition to its poignant lyrics that I relate to big time, its melody is splendid and stirs one's stagnant emotions quite violently thanks to the insane transitions in it. The song is very old and whenever I asked anyone whether they had ever heard it before, the answer was always a resounding no.

I then realized that I had never looked for the names of the composers and musicians who composed most of the songs I play on the piano. I decided to make an online search; solely to figure out the names of the composers of five particular songs' melodies (including the newly learned piece) I like to play, hoping that I'd find more interesting pieces in their repertoires to learn. The result was one of the most delightful and revealing surprises I had ever had: the five melodies were composed by the same composer!

And yet, some motherfuckers still don't believe me when I say that music is the only language I speak fluently.

The Dream of Independence

By Fadi Zyada

Among the uplifting dates in a history that is replete with gore and political morbidity, April 17th, 1946, is a memorable one that holds greatly patriotic significance in the Syrian history. It marks the glorious day on which the last French soldier evacuated the Syrian soil and the country was then declared to be fully independent after a French mandate that had lasted for more than a quarter of a century. The seventeenth of April, which is locally known as the "Evacuation Day"; the equivalent of Independence Day in other countries, is effervescently celebrated every year by all Syrians. But today, four years after the eruption of the popular Syrian revolution that was later demonized and metamorphosed into a civil war, is Syria truly independent?

To provide an objective answer, one must first recall the maniacal chronicles that led to the emergence of Al-Assad family, the undisputed ruling family in Syria, and then assess their reign. On March 8th, 1963, a coup d'état resulted in the seizure of power by Ba'ath Party. A trio of members in the military committee of the party plotted and executed the coup,; and those were Mohammad Umran, Salah Jadid, and Hafez al-Assad. Three years later—prompted by internal disputes between the pioneer Ba'athists and the advocates of a remodeled Ba'athism—Hafez participated in a second coup alongside his comrade Salah, upon which the latter came to power as the de facto ruler of Syria. The third and last coup in the country, which took place on November 13th, 1970, was the one that finally brought Al-Assad family to power, when Hafez toppled none other his longtime friend, Salah Jadid, in what was unconvincingly referred to as "The Corrective Movement". A few months later, sham presidential elections were held and resulted in appointing Hafez Al-Assad as a president with 99.6% of the votes.

By reviewing a synopsis of the milestones in his era, which lasted from 1970 until his demise in 2000, the dark aspects of Hafez Al-Assad’s rule majorly standout and efface the limited bright ones. Petrified by a potential coup that could be inspired by the multiple ones he previously had partaken in, he immediately expelled fellow, formidable, influential, partisan leaders and kept only the trusted ones who were merely tawdry follower; which was a step that foreshadowed an utter absence of political pluralism and democracy that would entirely dominate the political atmosphere in the country for the next four decades. Besides the dearth of veritable economic and political reforms, Hafez' accomplishments were sadly nothing but infamous successes of bloodily quelling uprisings and forestalling others. Several massacres were carried out during his authoritarian rule that resulted in the deaths of thousands, but the most prominent one was in the city of Hama, when the Syrian Army—under the command of his brother, Rifaat Al-Assad—annihilated more than twenty thousand citizens there. The sole demigod policy remained in effect even after Hafez Al-Assad passed away in 2000; as his son inherited not only the father's power, but also the concomitant ideologies that had been wreaking the country for years.

Upon a swift, cockamamie, constitutional amendment that dropped the minimum age of the president from 40 to 34 to fit his age at the time, Bashar Al-Assad ran for president unopposed and won 99.7% of the votes, smashing his father's record and becoming his successor. During his reign, Bashar presented a perfect demonstration of oligarchy and theatrical jingoism that is based on pseudo nationalistic principles he lavishly fed his people. Attempting to delude the public with his advocacy of Arabism and Nationalism, he displayed a feigned conduct of opposition to the U.S. and Israel via public statements filled with meretricious rhetoric while he was simply conducting negotiations and signing political accords with both under the table. He also bolstered the mafia-like methodology that had been implemented for decades within the regime by designating family members at the top positions in the army, Ministry of Interior and Ministry of Defense. His brother, Maher Al-Assad, leads the Fourth Armed Division, which is the strongest military formation in the army. Hafez Makhlouf, the maternal cousin of Bashar Al-Assad, is one of the most important intelligence officers in the country; as he's the Director of the Internal Branch at the General Security Directorate and the person in charge of all the security niceties in Damascus. Until his death in 2012, Assef Shawkat, who was Bashar's brother-in-law, had occupied several significant posts, among them: Director of Military Intelligence and Deputy Defense Minister. Atef Najeeb, Bashar's other maternal cousin, had been the political security chief in Daraa for years before he got transferred to Damascus upon the escalation of the turmoil in Daraa in 2011. And as for the less—yet still weighty —significant posts at the various institutions and departments in the country, those were exclusively dedicated to Alawites; the lucky citizens who belonged to the president’s denomination.

Before we finally reach the answer to the question we raised earlier, we need to briefly examine the current situation in Syria; particularly, in regard to the state’s sovereignty. The country is fiercely contested between a regime that has lost legitimacy, according to the majority of the international community, and multitudinous armed groups some of which fight for a righteous cause while others simply fight to fulfill hidden agendas. The regime controls no more than 35% of the Syrian territories according to many international reports. The Iranian presence in the country is extremely vivid, whether through the political influence of the Iranian foreign policy or the existence of Iranian experts who train and sometimes lead the Syrian soldiers. Hezbollah is also actively present in Syria, fighting alongside the regime and achieving minor triumphs every now and then. On the other hand, besides the soldiers who defected from the regime’s army and established the Free Syrian Army [FSA], there are mainly three other intrusive entities: ISIL, which is the most notorious and abominable armed faction in the country, and it’s in control of considerably vast regions and not showing any signs of receding despite the ongoing alliance's airstrikes targeting its stronghold, Al-Raqqa; Al-Nusra Front, which is an offshoot of Al-Qaeda consisting of Jihadists from numerous Arab and Islamic countries, and it has also managed to control some areas in the country as a result of its combats with the regime, the FSA and ISIL; and finally, there is an assortment of Islamist groups that had had a meager impact within the ongoing war until they recently united under the name “Jaish Al-Fatah”—or, as it means in English, "The Army of Conquest"—and managed to seize control over Idlib city on March 28th, 2015.

In view of all these vicious intricacies, independence is clearly not a trait the country has at the moment. All Syrians are quite cognizant of the indubitable fact that Evacuation Day has lost its validity since Hafez Al-Assad came to power in 1970, for their country simply became colonized by a family. Today, however, in addition to the despotic regime, Syria is occupied by various ogres driven by insatiable political and materialistic avarices. Until the people's volition conquers all, no independence shall be celebrated.

I once had...

I once had a heart whose beats were unpredictable and unmatched. My soul would sometimes dance solo to that rhythm, unbothered by the absence of a swaying partner. My heart is just a muscle now, and my soul is no longer tangible.

I once had a dream where I could be the sum of all the heavenly concepts I had ever aspired to embody in my sordid reality. I have nothing but a recurring, empty fantasy now; a hyperbolized mirage of a man I have never been and will never be.

I once had an angel whose mahogany wings would only flap when my dying lips are vivified by the vigorous embrace of hers. Now, I have nothing but an abominable devil in a filthy mirror that no matter how hard I try to clean, the spots on it never vanish

I once had a heaven of my own, existing on a mundanely lofty earth, where malevolence and hatred were cardinal sins. I have nothing but a man-made hell now, where all my consecrated beliefs are burned alive.

I once had a sublime purpose, a message to deliver, a set of principles to die for and an inner voice with an everlasting echo. I'm now the impeccable personification of futility, and the only voice I hear is listlessness.

Diary of a Lone Commuter {March 25th, 2015}

The image of every skinny, old man with a face ridden with wrinkles and protruding cheekbones is now reminiscent of my father, which is becoming quite disturbing. I am looking at the driver of the bus through the rear-view mirror, and although his facial features don't really resemble those of my father's, I can't help but remember my dad's collapsible face during the last days of his unfair struggle against that unconquerable malady.

The poor driver is obviously not in a condition that allows him to be doing such an arduous job. I can feel the coldness of his barely skinned skeleton from his body language although it's not really that cold. I can also tell from his sunken, tearful, red eyes that he's either fatigued or suffering from a severe lack of sleep.

Life is merciless and there's no grand design, or whatever other terms people use to refer to providence; that utterly random sequence of purposeless -yet inevitable- events.

On another note, I can't really wait to reach home. There are way too many things in my mind I'm thinking of simultaneously, and that's part of the daily suffering people with compulsively creative minds go through. I started composing a new musical piece last year and it should be completed within this week. It's my first composition in more than six years and my fifth in total. I also need to finish the fifth chapter of the novel within the upcoming two weeks.

For less artistic purposes, I'm eager to go home to eat something. I've been having that weird nutritional condition lately that is really annoying. I feel full at one moment, and then twenty minutes later I feel too fucking hungry!

Traffic jams are becoming an integral part of the not-so-lovely driving experience in Amman. Jordanian drivers are also becoming more irresponsible than ever. A good example is the reckless motherfucker to my right -- he is squeezing through the adjoining cars, doing unfeasible stunts to pass through the traffic lights before they turn red.

I'm planning to buy a car by the end of April. Yeah, finally! Although there should not be one single negative thing about having your own car, I'll sincerely miss these diary entries, especially the ultra-personal ones that I don't publish. Or maybe I can just change the title to "Diary of a Lone Driver" and turn the written entries into recorded audio clips! Nah, that won't work. I'm a writer, period.

I can smell the invasive odor of the smoke emanating from the factories, which means we have reached Zarqa!

It's time to fuck off, I guess!

Raven and Matthew meet each other for the first time...

This is an excerpt from my novel, "No Ravens Fly In Heaven". This is the part where Raven - the main character in the novel who is both; the protagonist and the antagonist - meets Matthew, the third main character in the novel, for the first time.

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Lost within mental aloofness that he has never been in before, Raven walks back to his apartment in irregular steps with a head stuffed with puzzling notions. He stops in the middle of his way back, drops his eyelids down for brief, stolen seconds then raises them up like curtains unveiling a fresh dramatic scene. The wind has subsided, but the aching mind of his hasn't. The displaced birds have returned to their disorderly nests, but his soul has just commenced seeping through that tepid corpus of his and might never return. The trees have stopped shaking and they're no longer hemorrhaging leaves, but the trembling of his heart has not abated and it's still bleeding harmony.

He moves on, reaches the spot where he usually parks his car and that's when he freezes to stare into the complete void that is occupying the spot. He realizes that he didn't drive back in his car last night and that it should be still parked in front of the nightclub.

"Miraculous...this is just miraculous!" 

Raven tells himself in a subtle, sarcastic voice before he checks his left pocket of his pants to make sure the car keys are still there. He stops the first taxicab he sees and heads to the nightclub. The perimeter of the place is deceivingly calm, but Raven has ultimate readiness for a probable storm. He reaches his car, unlocks the door and then hears a rough voice coming from the back in a tone that doesn't sound friendly enough: "Good morning, sir."

Raven turns around and replies: "I guess it is." with a genuinely artificial grin and an upbeat voice.

"Is this your car?" An African American man in his late forties wearing a grey suit asks. He's tall, with a short, black and white hair and red eyes surrounded by blackness and swollenness due to lack of sleep.

"Yes, it is. Why are you asking?"

"I'm detective Edwards…Matthew Edwards from NYPD and I'm investigating in a homicide". Matthew says and shows his ID to Raven.

"It's an exalted delectation to meet you, detective. I have a compulsive feeling that I didn't do it!" Raven says and giggles while his arms are folded.

"Did you?" Matthew asks in a serious tone of voice.

"I've undeniably committed multifarious irremissible sins throughout the seemingly interminable lifetime of mine, but an extirpation of a pneuma from an earthling is an act I have never effectuated before." Raven responds articulately with a face that shifts into that typical coldness of his.

"….........." Matthew looks at Raven silently, but quite resentfully.

"No, I didn't kill anyone." Raven says, unfolds his arms, puts his hands in his pants pockets, loosely leans backwards against his car and slightly tilts his head to the right, letting a thin wisp of his fringe fall down in front of his left eye.

"Wasn't that a lot easier to say?" Matthew asks.

"Verbally, yes it was, but not intellectually. It made me feel too generic." Raven replies.

"Can you please explain to me, in layman's terms, why your car has been parked here since last night?" Matthew asks, cutting to the chase.

"Because I don't have an affinity for violating the law."

"Would you please elaborate?"

"Last night, I had too many drinks and wasn't in a condition that would allow me to drive. Therefore, I decided to leave my car here and take a cab to get back home."

"Drunken people usually fail to make such wise decisions."

"I don't recall that I said I was drunk. I did consume more alcohol than the usual, but not enough to be inebriated."

"Well, I'm glad you did the right thing. I still have some more questions if you don't mind."

"It would be my ultimate pleasure to help in any possible way, detective."

"Excellent...have you ever seen this guy before?" Matthew asks, showing a picture of Harry Hazle.

Raven looks at the picture maintaining the exact, same, cold look without showing any suspicious alteration in his facial expressions that would expose him, in spite of the sordid, resonating voice of Harry's that rings thunderously in Raven's ears: "NEWSFLASH, MOTHERFUCKER!!!", and then immediately answers with a dully unexciting voice: "Yes, I have."

"You sure?"

"Positive."

"When and where?"

"Last night. Here, in this nightclub."

"What was he doing?"

"Drinking, making phone calls every ten minutes, laughing and sometimes yelling...he was just having classic fun, I presume."

"Well, at least he had some fun before he got killed."

"So, he's the victim."

"Yes. It seems that this nightclub was the last place where he was seen alive. He was found dead in his car a few blocks away from here. Do you remember whether he was alone or accompanied by anyone?"

"I don't remember seeing him sitting with or talking to anyone other than those he talked to on the phone, but of course I could be wrong. I wasn't paying attention to the guy the whole night. I'm sorry if I'm not being very useful to you."

"No, you're actually being helpful and cooperative enough. The fact that you managed to remember his face in a heartbeat was quite impressive as well."

"I never forget a face I laid my eyes on."

"That can come in handy."

"It has its pros and cons."

"Sure...well, what about you? Were you alone, too?"

"Yeah."

"What were you doing?"

"I was having Sex on the Beach."

"Excuse me?!"

"Sex on the Beach; it's a cocktail. You should try it one day. It's my fourth favorite cocktail of all time."

"Oh...I've never heard of that. What's it made of?" Matthew asks with a bit of a smile on his face.

"There are several variations but my personal favorite consists of extra chilled Stolichnaya vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice and cranberry juice, and with six rocks. Garnish with a lemon wedge. Make sure to fill at least third of the glass with the vodka."

"Aint that too strong?"

"Maybe, but that's how I prefer my vodka cocktails--powerful and memorable."

"I'll consider it tonight if I ever manage to get the privilege of having a few minutes to spare in the bar, but that seems highly unlikely considering this case I'm working on."

"Well, I hope you'll be rewarded with that privilege."

"Thank you, Mr..."

"Ameer...Raven Ameer."

"That's an interesting name, Mr. Raven Ameer."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

"Raven…now I see why you don't forget the faces you see."

"Wow, you know about the stupefying memory of ravens--I'm impressed!"

"Yeah, I watch Discovery Channel when the news is too depressing."

"Keep edifying yourself; you never know when your knowledge could be a more potent substitute for the lethality of your gun whose bullets are crazily craving to be discharged."  Raven says, sounding drugged on righteousness.    

"Okay, Mr. Raven Ameer, thanks a lot for your time. Here's my card just in case you remember anything and feel that it might help me in solving this case."

"Sure." Raven replies, then takes the business card and puts it in his wallet.

"Have a nice day, sir."

"You, too."

Matthew turns around and heads to the main street and Raven gets in his car and drives back home, with both of his hands shaking on the wheel like those of a hyperactive percussionist on Ceptagon.

The Chronicles of a Martyr

Some were born to embrace the unreached horizons of the limitless sky. I know someone who had been predestined to be carried on restless clouds and winnowed by wings of aspiration before he was even born. He's no longer with us in the flesh; as he had devoted it along with every bone in his mundane body for his homeland, but the thunderous echo of his heartbeats and the vivid presence of his spirit shall last till hell freezes over.

He's a kid…yet he can feel it.

He can feel the pride that is instilled within innately. It's a historical privilege given exclusively to those who are born and raised in Karak; the land of unforgettable triumphs. Heroism, intrepidity and honor are traits he's endowed with by default.

He's a schoolboy…yet he can see his bright future.

He's the prime example of brilliance, politeness and kindness. In the classroom, he's on a quest to excel and impress, to design his own life and to consummately set the track that would lead him to ineluctable success.

He's a young man…yet he feels as if the weight of his whole homeland lies on his shoulders.

It's a crossroad and he must make a momentous decision. He applied to the Air Force and also to a university in Moscow to study medicine. He has just been accepted in both and it's time to choose. He's torn between pursuing a career in which he would save people's lives and another one in which he would dwell in the sky, protecting and safeguarding the homeland he adores to the core. It's all written; so he has to go with the latter.

He's a newlywed…yet his fate will unfold an even more blissful event.

Five months of marriage is all what he and his wife will get. Their hopes and wishes of building their love nest and expanding it with their offspring will have to be aborted prematurely for a grander cause. He's been called for duty, and his beloved homeland always comes first.

He's a captive…yet it feels as if his captors are the ones in captivity.

He's living his last seconds in this earthly world. Nevertheless, he's standing on his firm feet with nothing but mightiness emanating from his glowing eyes. The fire might have burned his body, but his soul ascended to lodge in its haven; that aerial abode above an alluring azure.

He's dead…yet, he's alive in every sense of the word…We shall never forget the martyr, Mu'ath Safi Al-Kasasbeh.

The Addictive Art of Creating Monsters

Drawn by Fernando Travis

If you rummage through literature, you’ll be quite amazed by the striking similarities existing in both realms; that expansive fictional world and our vapid real one. A remarkable example would be Frankenstein’s monster; the eternally memorable character portrayed in Mary Shelly’s masterpiece, “Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus”, which now has an ideal counterpart in this decaying world of ours; namely, ISIL.

Politics can sometimes mimic literary prose astonishingly, yet many seem to let such occurrences go by unnoticed, but not me; I don’t, especially when the same, exact, abominable occurrence is repeated twice.

In the novel, for those who are not that fond of reading literature, Victor Frankenstein is an excessively dreamy scientist who is determined to create live matter out of lifelessness by exploiting his outstanding scientific knowledge and sheer aspirations. He accomplishes his objective but not very successfully; as the final “product” turns out to be a monster, or a “fiend” as the brilliant author herself refers to it later in the novel. The miscreation, which is uncontrollable and disobedient, would eventually be the cause of all the misfortune that befalls upon the people in Victor’s life, who would then expectedly blame himself.

America has already imitated Victor’s ambitious attempt of creating life, but Uncle Sam’s intentions were less virtuous and more ungodly. It all started during the Soviet war in Afghanistan, which lasted from 1979 until 1989, when America decided to vivify the “Mujahedeen”; the name that was given to the multinational rebel groups. It was a simple – but quite misjudged– implementation of the basic principle: my enemy’s enemy is a friend of mine. That once barely noticeable entity led by a reckless young man called “Osama”, who was driven by a purely religious ideology – regardless whether it was flawed or not – became the cynosure; thanks to the massive logistic and tactical support Osama received from his sudden friend. The final result was the creation of a monster that wasn't less hideous than Frankenstein’s – Al-Qaeda.

The U.S. simply saw a man who was willing to fight one of their most hated adversaries – The Soviet Union, but they had failed to have a future view through which they would have prophesied the tragedy they fed themselves twenty years later. That monstrous entity; Al-Qaeda, has sabotaged the world order and is still doing so, despite the demise of its leader by the hands of his own creator.

As if one wasn't enough, America idiotically did it again. In a malicious attempt to, first; sustain the deadly conflict taking place in Syria as part of America’s covert endeavors to help Assad stay in power safeguarding the Israeli borders, and second; distort the true peaceful image of Islam, America gave life to an even more unsightly, barbaric, dreadful monster called “ISIL”. However, history (and maybe literature) always repeats itself; as the U.S. will most likely lose control of its repulsive demon quite soon, and I’m afraid they’ll pay an exceedingly high price that would surpass that of 9/11.

I believe the only major difference between Uncle Sam and Victor is that the latter eventually held himself ethically responsible and showed bona fide remorse for his unwise action; unlike the former, whose haughtiness is way too grand to let him admit his fatal mistake.

I wish I had never seen that lighthouse, and just remained lost in the sea...

It's been exactly eighty days since she ended our story before it even started. She is almost a forgotten memory already, which is something that may not sound convincing at all; as I've been counting days since her departure, but those who know me well would deem it as a justifiable act according to my intricately odd persona. I always count the days that pass after a tragic event I go through in my life to make sure that I will be fully recovered from its aftermath by the hundredth day. So, frankly speaking, I'm glad that I only need to go through twenty more days and then she'll completely vanish.

Some might ask why one hundred days and not more or fewer? Well, let's just say that I've been through enough personal disasters in my life, and according to those several experiences, one hundred days should be quite enough to overcome the pain and examine the losses.

The reason why I'm writing this entry on this specific day is because it's Valentine's Day. So, it was quite expected that I would think of her today, especially that the image of her pearl-inlaid ivory cheek hasn't crossed my mind for the whole last week, probably because I was on a vacation.

The recovery process started approximately a week after the closure. I unfriended her on Facebook, simply because her posts wouldn't make it really easy for me to let her go, not that I hated her, hell no, that was not and will never be an option. Her response was a childish one – she blocked me! She did it to get even! Well, she's an eastern girl, after all. I guess we definitely wouldn't have been a good match. She just assumed that it would be quite fine with me to remain a friend after all what I told her and all the feelings I exposed to her without any conservation, which was certainly a naive assumption. But I excuse her; as I'm almost doubtless that she has never ever fallen in love before, so it's not possible for her to understand what I felt at that moment when I decided to unfriend her.

Among the numerous things I'm glad for about this whole unfulfilled love story is the fact that I didn't end up with an exceedingly pragmatic person, considering that I am driven by emotions, impulse and passion; so we are the complete opposite. There's absolutely no shame in being pragmatic, it's just not a persona that would complement me; it would rather demolish me and every lively detail about my character. I'm dreamy, ambitious, unpredictable and rebellious while she's realistic, mainstream, predictable and too subtle. We really are two opposing characters; I can’t believe that I actually proposed to her. Love can truly dominate someone's senses. Another reason why I wanted to spend the rest of my life with her was because she was an inexhaustible source of inspiration to me. When I told her that she was my muse, I wasn't lying. As a matter of fact, a couple of weeks ago I imagined an alternative scenario, in which I wouldn't tell her anything about my feelings and would just keep her close to me as a friend, just to get inspired by her. At the beginning, I thought it would have been actually a possibility, but upon a more thorough contemplation, I realized it was impossible…I loved her…I would eventually have to confront her with my feelings.

It's indeed such a great relief that my feelings for her are almost gone. I'm writing these words with incredible ease, unlike the words I wrote three weeks after she broke my heart, which I will make sure that no soul will ever come across them! I was devoured by hurt and distress over her cruelty, well-fabricated lies and apathy. She manipulated me the whole time and didn't have the courtesy to apologize, so naturally, I had to be in a fucked up condition.

I'm only regretful for one thing about this whole unfortunate attempt of seeking eternal bliss that turned out to be an utter tragedy, and I'm sure she'll never know what it is. I don't have any regrets for the tens of flowers I gifted her after looking for them in more than twenty shops; as it wasn't the red roses season at the time. I don't have any regrets that I told my best friends about the relationship I had with her, and that soon they'd have to forgive me for abandoning bachelorship; they certainly lent me their shoulders to cry on and alleviated my pain. I don't have any regrets for being too hasty that I told the elderly men in our family to prepare themselves for the betrothal. I don't have any regrets about staying up all night on every fucking day waiting for her to respond to my messages that I sent in the early morning. I don’t have any regrets for always replying to her messages instantly and not playing the "hard-to-get" or "too-busy-having-a-life" cards, because I'm never fake; my outside is a reflection of my inside. I don't have any regrets for any of the honest things I told to her father, even if she was lying to me the whole time; because I am as true with people as I am with myself. I'm only regretful for the words I wrote for her…the poems, love words, hearty lines and every letter I wasted on her. I wish I could unwrite them.

Twenty more days and she shall be a relic…I'm looking forward to an upcoming future teeming with endless possibilities.

Clutching At Life With Sheer Tenacity

Bart the cat. CREDIT: REUTERS/HUMANE SOCIETY OF TAMPA BAY/HANDOUT VIA REUTERS

Yesterday, I read a remarkable news story about clinging to life and having faith in every teeny breath. A cat named 'Bart' was run over and ended up lying down seemingly lifeless and motionless. The owner buried the cat, just like anyone else would do, but the cat showed up five days later, casting utter dismay, unprecedented surprise and awe upon the heart of his owner.

The cat incredibly dug himself back up, using nothing but his claws and ferocious heartbeats. His condition was critical; as he injured his left eye badly and broke his jaw in his journey back to the surface of Earth; the place where many adopt perspectives conflict with that of Bart's.

I was emotionally moved by the story to the point that a tear surreptitiously ran down my freshly shaved beard. I also, more importantly, felt quite ashamed; as I had repeatedly lost hope in myself in the past, unlike this courageous, tiny creature. His epic struggle should be written down in history books and taught at schools.

I have no idea what type of life Bart had had before he was buried; whether it was good or bad, but I'm quite certain that his mind was destitute of any past thoughts, and that it only focused on one sole thing -- getting the fuck out of that grave and resurfacing. He didn't deliberately break his jaw and irreversibly damage his eye because he missed any aspects of his past life as a pet; he rather believed in a tomorrow that is replete with fresh possibilities. He simply felt it wasn't his time to go yet, and just fought for his prerogative to live.

Bart the cat has instilled insight in me and inspired me to just clutch at life with sheer tenacity at all costs. Shame on my fellow humans who have never been able to teach me that lesson before.


      

#Hashtag

Three days ago, a very old taxi driver asked me what a hashtag was. The radio was turned on and the word was mentioned. He was like: "What the fuck is a 'hashtag'? I've always wanted to know what it means. You seem young enough to know a lot about your disgraceful generation. Tell me, what does it mean?"

I always get along quite well with ill-tempered, old men; they remind me of my late father. I laughed and said: "You see sir; it's a way to track down all posts on social media networks related to a specific topic. For instance, during the snowstorm that happened a few days ago, the hashtag 'Huda' was used. If you searched for that hashtag during the storm, you would end up with all the posts that include it, and that way, you could view all the posts that talk about the storm."

"And why the fuck do they call it a hashtag?" He asked.

"Because they use the hash sign to add the hashtag to a post."

"What the fuck is a hash sign?"

"The number sign…It's also known as a hash sign in English language."

"You mean the one that looks like a chopped square that we use whenever we want to recharge our cell phones with credit?"

"Exactly…It's funny that you referred to it as a "chopped" square; because the word "hash" in English also means 'to chop' as a verb…or "chopped food" as a noun."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

"For someone who belongs to a fucked up generation, you're not a complete ignoramus."

I giggled and said "Thanks, sir."

"But isn't there an Arabic equivalent for 'hashtag'?"

"Yes, there is. It's 'Wasm'' [in English it means to brand, or mark.]

"Ah-huh…As to brand or mark something so you'd easily recognize it."

"Precisely."

"Why don't those fuckers on the radio use it?"

"Hell if I know."

"You know what? Hashtag their sisters!"

"Touché"

And then I almost passed out laughing.

Death To Tyrants

Once upon a time in the land of tyranny, a human soul lived and died for the homeland’s sake.

Shaima, who was a fervent believer of people’s volition, was marching peacefully towards Al-Tahrir (Liberation) Square in Egypt to lay garlands in commemoration of the fourth anniversary of the glorious January 25th revolution that overthrew the former despotic president, Husni Mubarak, when the perfidious bullets targeted her head; the head that insisted to remain high and lofty, glutted with virtuous ideas sanctifying freedom, justice and humanity.

Her death shall solidify the fact that a bastardized regime that emerged from a vile womb; a coup d’état, headed by a military general devoid of any human ethics will never be adequate for ruling.

The dead body of Shaima Al-Sabbagh, a mother of a six-year-old, is carried by her husband moments upon her death, as shown in the picture above.



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