14th March 2018 | Mosul, Iraq
"Our beloved is up above...O' up above is our beloved. By God, O' water stream go and greet him, greet him!"
The soulful voice of Nazem Al-Ghazali bounced off the walls of her room. The wooden furniture judgmentally stared as the transparent white curtain seemed oblivious, sweetly allowing the morning light to seep through and cast over the unattended bed.
She couldn't help -while cleaning her wardrobe mirror- but notice her Mediterranean-brown skin; so unhealthy and irritated. Her black orbs felt foreign.
She feels insensitive listening to a song in the midst of such times, yet she feels the need to console herself with a bit of normalcy. "This time isn't any different from all other times," she desperately wanted to believe.
If only the staggering feeling, the edgy knife, would cease to suggest otherwise.
She looks out her window as she swiftly moved into her room. The glass window faced the street in front of the house. She looked as far too many people passed. She can always open the curtain carelessly though, no one ever looks up.
As a failed attempt to distract herself, her mind wandered back to the previous night.
Her dad's visits became concerningly frequent to his father's house, she noticed he never returned with a peaceful mind and would stare into space more often.
Seeing her grandfather's notebook that contained all his finances in her father's hold after one visit didn't alarm Leen that much, but it was when her father was struggled to decode the information in it, the knife wickedly grazed her heart.
She understood that her dad needed to know what and who her grandfather owed money to. She understood then that her dad couldn't ask her grandfather to navigate the notebook. Leen's strong grandfather is so ill he is unable to speak.
She painfully understood the severity of his condition and asked her father to take her to her grandfather's.
That night, Leen found herself in disillusionment as her step-grandmother opened the front door for her father and her. Her concerns were confirmed yet again as her hopes for his well-being were shrinking by the second.
Leen found herself longingly looking back at the times when he would step out in the freezing cold of Northern Iraq with just one thin layer of clothing as her dad muttered and grumbled about his own father getting sick. "You're not the father of me," Her grandfather would teasingly retort.
Always humorous, encouraging, and straightforward.
She subconsciously handed her phone to her father as her hands were getting clammy like they always did whenever she wanted anything but. She rushed into the small congested, yet almost nonchalantly quiet, square room.
Leen seldom admired her grandfather's regard to visual appeal, but the impeccable color scheme of this room never failed to prove her otherwise.
The temperature was extremely warm, it was either too hot or too cold in her grandfather's household. she often wonders if this has anything to do with his time in the military or labs on military bases.
Except she felt cold, cold water strike her like an electric shockwave.
She was welcomed with silence. No warm greetings, no kind words. her grandfather couldn't recognize that someone has entered his house. He was dancing on the edge of unconsciousness while clutching his left kidney in agony.
The knife penetrated her heart completely, right then and there.
His state was confusing to Leen. Is this actually him? Just how could it be?
It's such a violent contrast to what he's usually like. He's not cursing at the politicians on TV, muting then unmuting it as he fails to fight his curiosity. He's not sitting upright. He's not smoking a cigarette. He's not embarrassing her father with silly childhood stories. He's not doing any of the things she'd known him for.
Her distress was further triggered when she noticed he was lying on his portable bed close to the window. Too close for her liking.
She refrained from crying at his house. For the person that he is, he'd rather wish death upon himself than for people to feel sorry for him or to pity him. Although that wasn't her intention, Leen was adamant she would not shed a tear.
She didn't miss the slight twitch of her grandfather's closed eyes every now and then, he was in deep pain. She couldn't help but notice his heavy clothing. This tells her he was too ill he couldn't bother to argue with her father. A random channel was on the TV, something he'd never choose consciously. And how could she miss the empty ashtray by his side? A life-long smoker like him would have lit a cigarette or five regardless of his ailment.
She was overwhelmed, overcome by her emotions. So many she could only identify any.
She felt her battered soul leave her body, walk brokenly to hug her knees to her chest by her grandfather's feet.
And that damned window was throwing gas onto her inner fire!
She finally returned home, her grandfather never once opened his eyes. She went to her room, took a deep breath, and snuggled under the covers. She had decided she will not cry.
From a reasonable person's perspective, this is idiotic. And it is. She's always had poor management when it came to her emotions; bottles it all up and breaks at the first spontaneous "How do you do?". Perhaps her motive was to not add to her father's misery, he's visibly stressed and her crying would be the most selfish thing she could do.
Whether this is true or not, and for whatever reason Leen refused to cry that night, it didn't matter now.
All she needed at that moment was to rest her restless mind as the dark kissed the sky and the distant light of stars looked after her for the night.
~*
"Salamat... Salamat, I send in Salamat. Days came and went, I wanted you to come see us. Dreams blossom when we see you. And lanterns, they kindle."
The next morning Leen's father received a call at 7:48 a.m. and her grandfather was urgently transmitted to the hospital. Six hours later her dad called, crying like she'd never heard before, informing them her grandfather has passed away at around noon.
This time around she couldn't cry even if she wanted to. The news she received was simply unfathomable.
Her grandfather's death was deeply damaging. He was her biggest supporter, always had high expectations for her, and was always interested to discuss matters with her. He saw her. He regarded and respected her, never thought lightly of her.
It's frightening how limited our time in this life is. And how effortless it is to forget the ones that leave us first as time goes on.
How hard it is to believe they're gone forever, leaving nature to take its course as they decompose. A nameless part of a bigger purpose.
How the world goes on, leaving you thinking how could it? How when the one that drew a smile on your face is no longer in it? The ones that validated you constantly… And then it rains and you think the world is crying with you, sharing your sorrow with silent cries and angry thunders.
Oh and how far away death seems when in reality it's a close companion. A regular house-guest even.
How far tomorrow seems until it isn't.
How safe we feel, away from calamities. Until they hit us.
How despicable regret and retrospect are, yet we bring them upon ourselves so naïve-ly. So humanly!
~*
At his funeral, Leen distracted herself, to the best of her ability, with praying and Du'aa (Supplication). She tried focusing on the holy book between her sweaty palms but the constant chattering was infuriating.
Some people were crying and wailing. In some sick way, that made her happy.
She was later able to interpret her motions accurately, something quite rare for Leen to accomplish. And realized what the reason for her surge of joy is.
Even though he used to be quite indifferent about people's opinions, she knew that just like anyone else would feel, he would've been at peace knowing people miss and wish his return.
She noticed no one bothered to console each other. It saddens Leen how detached everyone is from their compassion, herself included. A supposedly innate human nature feels too foreign that people would get aggressive if one shows vulnerability.
"I'm open" That's all that is needed to be said. All that is needed to be declared.
People don't understand how to react and have no clue what they're expected to do in a gloomy situation. They feel personally attacked by the obsessions and insecurities that are being thrown at them from a broken someone.
Leen went outside her grandmother's house -where the funeral is being held- for some fresh air and made it a point to avoid eye contact. She still hasn't cried and is not sure how much longer she can keep up this façade.
The garden is as breath-taking as ever, which is ironic seeing the purpose she wanted to be present in the said garden was to breathe freely.
The roses almost coherently serenading as they colorfully blossom, eager to flaunt their beauty with the limited time they have of Spring in Iraq.
The sun is shining, the leaves performing their remarkable job diligently and perseveringly. Bugs are still annoying. Birds are standing on the electric wires. Everything and everyone isn't bothered. Like her soul isn't bleeding. Like her heart isn't suffering a freshly-cut valley.
She always thought birds were the coolest animals. They have all the freedom anyone can wish for. They can stand on electric wires fearlessly and have two stomachs. They also stand, like posh Londoners, in an upright posture with their chests brought forward. She goofily imagines them having sophisticated accents with insanely long surnames
"Indeed darling," said madam Octavia Robinson, the house sparrow, insightfully.
Leen scoffed amusingly at her own silly thoughts.
The sound of Leen's mother calling awoke her from her short fantasy. Her mother appeared at the front door and was inconspicuously looking to see whether or not Leen has cried yet. Leen inspected her back and sure enough, her mother had been crying all day.
she was once again reminded to collect herself, to stay composed and reliant. For the sake of others. She did not want to be that person who only adds to the apprehension of the moment.
She went inside to serve another round of coffee –as her mother instructed- and all Leen can do was wonder why anyone was crying at all.
After all, death is too easy. It's living that's the biggest punishment.
~*
18th July 2018 | Mosul, Iraq
"Life gives us light at the end of the tunnel, calling us to forget the pain we endured. We may give up, but no! So long as there is life in us. So long as the route of hope is there, we shall live"
Ms. Zahraa, Leen's science teacher, kept repeating the essential conditions that must be provided in order for fungi to grow. She has been saying this for a disturbingly long time but for some reason, it didn't strike Leen as odd.
Her vision is uncanny; faces aren't recognizable and quite blurred. She wondered who some of the classmates were, what class she was in, and why some of her friends were badly injured.
She can hear distant, heavy stomps in the hallways just outside the barrier of the door. Ms. Zahraa opened the door and her body disappeared as she walked away to check.
Leen always admired curious people, she is one as well. She is often impressed by the bluntness and courage of curious minds; it's not always welcomed to ask questions. But at that moment, Leen felt terrified and irritated as her teacher curiously walked out. She felt her principles being aggressively debunked, grinded into crumbs with every step of her teacher's feet outside.
Leen could swear she was screaming and wailing in protest for her to stay, but no sound came out.
The gunshot was indicative for Leen and her classmates to get under their desks. She looked to her side and her dear friend Zainab was looking right at her. All that Leen could hear now was the repetitive high pitched voice of her long-missing Friend:
"My mama is still crying. Tell her to stop!"
Leen couldn't figure out whether it was her uncomfortably rapid heartbeat or the soaking-wet sheets beneath her that woke her up. Either way, Leen knew the next minutes will be excruciatingly difficult.
Leen rinsed the soap off her face and instantly looked away from the mirror, uninterested in the critical opinions she would propose about her nose, chin, and skin. She cannot afford body-image issues at the moment. Not now.
As she waited for her father to drive her to school, Leen couldn't stop her mind from reminiscing the morning's unfortunate events.
A dream she had a few nights before came to her memory too…
Leen was sitting in the middle of the street with many other families. The surroundings had bizarre colors and shapes but that didn't matter. She put her hands on her eyes and darkness surround her. She opened her eyes to find herself in the confinement of a water tank on what she imagined to be a pickup truck. Surrounded by strangers with no sign of her parents, Leen let out a fearful cry wanting it all to stop. The second the sob rolled off her lips, the cover of that tank was snatched open and a gun was pointed at her.
"There is no escape! Why don't you understand!"
She had been having regular panic attacks since the war ended. Her grandfather's death certainly fired them up. The stress that always accompanies school is becoming unbearable with all the impossibly high expectations other people have set for her. Or perhaps she's managing that job by herself just fine.
It has been about a year and she still hasn't learned how to control those mind-uproars. She has only learned what triggers her, to what extent, and why were they born.
While people sitting under or close to windows is extremely unsettling, it's a whole other level of discomfort when she has to do so herself. Plane noises are troubling but manageable. Stairs can cause her to physically cringe, especially seeing other people go down the stairs. Leen cannot allow her 7-years-old sister to go down the stairs before her; the view of someone very dear to her heart on the stairs brings horrifying memories of the night Mosul was liberated.
She has been dealing with this all without the knowledge of her parents. She hasn't purposely lied to them, they simply do not have the full truth. They know the war had long-term effects on her, they have acknowledged so themselves on many occasions.
Mental struggle is simply not real in eastern societies. It's seen as a conspiracy theory, propaganda created by the "other guys" to open up more job opportunities for the west at our expense.
Committing suicide is a devil's doing, one is simply not religious enough. People suffering from clinical depression are little snowflakes who couldn't handle real life. Schizophrenic people are flat-out mad. People suffering from PTSD lack the intellectual abilities to realize what used to scare them is non-threatening anymore.
Leen threw her head back as she tried to keep the tears at bay. The thought of these inner struggles never leaving her frightens her to no end.
"Please don't have me see tomorrow. At least not before I fix today," She begged the merciful above.
~*
13th March 2020 | Mosul, Iraq
"This is a song about somebody else, so don’t worry yourself, worry yourself. Don’t punish yourself, punish yourself. The truth is like blood underneath your fingernails. You don’t wanna hurt yourself, hurt yourself,"
Leen was accompanying a team of lecturers from the Women Community center to some nearby schools.
One of the lecturers is a victim of underage marriage, she got out of her marriage brittle and small. Now she diligently works to prevent other "young angels from falling from grace into dirt".
Another woman with them is a single mother who sews for a living, her space expertise is entrepreneurship and business management.
Leen was sharing the ride with a number of admirable ladies who were brave to dust themselves off and keep going.
How did she get here?
The previous year was unbelievable in so many ways. Leen is a different person, she feels she has been reborn.
It was not easy for Leen to get through her mental struggles, because she ultimately had to break down. She still remembers the lonely night that represented a turning point in the way she lived.
A bottle of cologne, half full with his poignant odor, brought beautiful memories like a flowing river with a broken dam.
Another failure at school, a departure of a friend, and a disappointed look from her father sent her to the curb. Her troubled mind had its final straw.
That night, Leen waited till everyone had left the house for dinner outside as she very steadily made her way to the sink.
She walked carefully as if the tears threatening to spill were an actual flood that may flush her feet off the ground or pull the rug from underneath.
As she reached the sink and held onto the edges, she broke down completely and entirely.
Leen cannot recollect much of that night, but she very clearly remembers letting out a sound that almost resembled a screech; a combination of a sob and a choke. Almost animal-like. Yet so incredibly human.
That night Leen didn't sleep. She vowed she will never hurt herself anymore, never let the negativity she unconsciously creates bring her down ever again.
She sat on the thick rug in the middle of her room with the lights dimmed down. She brought her diary notebook that she had abandoned seven years ago and started writing.
Leen wrote seven pages of compliments and wholesome words directed towards herself. she wrote everything from how cute the curve of her nose is, the bravery she showed during the war to the perseverance she maintained at school.
She reminded herself that she had done well, that she had been good.
One night of honesty and kindness. One night of self-compassion and acceptance. One night of self-worth. A single night is all she needed.
~
Leen starts her lecture after they arrived at the first school,
"We are born in a community of beautiful culture.
A community that is cohesive and people are protective of each other due to enduring similar brutal conditions,"
Leen noticed most students were now smiling gently at her speech. She continued confidently, bitter-sweetly describing her culture,
"We fight over bills like our lives or family legacy depends on it.
We stubbornly refuse to laugh when someone says a joke for the sole purpose of teasing them.
We throw the groom in the air and potentially give them a serious back injury on their wedding night because we care more about the throwing part than the catching part. But hey. It's funny!
We drink tea almost just as much as we drink water. Tea more, of course.
Road rage is common, almost too common. We need to maybe bring our anger down a notch".
Everyone is now fully engaged with her. Many were giggling knowingly and guilty. She was happy everyone found humor in this as she intended.
"Although we are noble, respectable people with a culture to be proud of, we must admit our flaws. There are things, that we unfortunately still practice, that should have been eradicated years ago.
Be it underage and forced marriage, domestic violence, gender discrimination, and belittling women, the so-called 'honor killing'… I could go on for a shamefully long time.
One that I'm sure you’ve all experienced is the ignorance and dismissal of mental struggle.
"If I can't see the struggle, then it doesn't exist. You attention-seeker!" We've all heard this one or ten times.
It's very difficult, even fruitless, to try changing the way adults view this matter. Any belief is install and engraved in their minds for years now.
It's the younger generations that you can target. It's people like you that can completely delete this!"
Leen took a deep breath and continued,
"One day, a loved one will be struggling and you will be put to the test.
Will you be brave enough, will you be human enough, to display emotion and talk about your struggles? Or will you behave the way everyone behaved towards your struggles?
You will soon be reminded of how detrimental it was that people made you second-guess your feelings, leading you to think you're a weak, sad excuse of a human. Leaving you aimless, drowning in a state of worthlessness.
Who do you want to become when a decision is needed? A tyrant, or a peacemaker?"
Leen approached the desks, looked at the students with immense plea and hope,
"You resemble a pirate. A strong mighty pirate sailing in the middle of the foggy, raging ocean. You are looking for hidden treasures; meaningfulness. A weight that is worth carrying on your ship of life. Your voyage might have had a rough journey, but know… it doesn't end here.
My Captains, Sail On!"
~*
Darling, darling that dam's gonna give
It’s inevitable the way that you live
There'll be hell to pay in heaven
For you take every street home
What happens when you're are in too deep to break?
Loneliness keeps you constantly awake
What happens when the passage of time appears?
You see yourself as a child and it brings you to tears
You say that you're troubled and you always have been
Uncomfortable in your own skin
So you contemplate the riverbed
Urn the dark thoughts in your head
Darling, darling that dam's gonna give
Let that dogwood blossom
Author: Yusur Harith Qazaz
Email: yuser.harith2004@gmail.com
Yusur Harith Qazaz is a high-school student from Mosul, Iraq. She attends Al Mutamayzat Secondary School.
She said that she has " visited two countries in the past, Malaysia and Syria. Getting to see places of the world definitely played a part in framing a story-teller within me".
To talk about her writing skills, she added:
"My mother has expressed her pride and fondness for my writing.
My writing has been described –not my mother's words, I promise- as: expressive, visual, intelligent, witty, and promising".