Dizzying clarity. How had I numbed my senses so much for the past four months? What mechanism of denial or adaptation or out-of-body-ness is at work here? Can one be fully functional when one does not quite register what exactly is going on and where and when until some time later?

I know. I will call it a lag of awareness. I have it.

I took it well, with my usual numbness and inability to fully grasp events when they first unfold. After the suddenness of it wore out, my sole thought was that I will never see this woman again who always featured in every familial gathering, who always had something interesting to say, who was probably a hypochondriac, and who always wore the most beautiful Palestinian dresses. She was always graceful and well put-together, albeit too hung up on appearances. But whatever her faults, she was a lively character and she always made excellent conversations.

Then I felt distant. This is the first major event to take place back in Amman after my departure, and I felt that I should be closer. Then I remembered the obligatory nature of most events of this type, and the way they turn from sincere grief to shows of social status and displays of phony emotions, and I was glad that I wasn’t there. I can’t tolerate the disfigurement of the loss of a loved person. Why do we mutilate even death?

So she’s gone. And although she was always in the background of my memories, at least this way I will be able to retain her image as a colourful and stylish conversationalist who so often told stories of old Palestine.

It’s a sort of pleasurable pain, if you will, with the pleasure outweighing the pain by folds. The pain itself is minimal (headaches, stress, continuous calculation of time left, sometimes a tinge of boredom) but the pleasure is immeasurable, acquiring almost physical qualities. The sensation caused by the rapid expansion of my horizon (whatever that is) and the way I can feel my knowledge stretching is second to none. It’s beautiful.

I suppose if this wasn’t a race I’d have been lethargic at some level, I wouldn’t be exactly racing against time but using it. I am not sure which scenario is better, but given the circumstances I don’t have much choice but to accept the race. On your mark, get set, go!

I was awarded a full PhD studentship by a top UK university and now I embark on a wholly new adventure. I am set to receive my MA degree in August, and to leave Jordan early October. I will be doing a PhD in Women’s Studies– fancy that!

The minute I read that email my life changed. Nobody can now tell me I cannot and will not be able to expand my horizons, for now I am mistress of my own destiny. I had received a partial scholarship from the same university last month but it wasn’t enough to give me peace of mind and I burned my brains out trying to figure out a way to meet my prospective financial needs. I also received offers of scholarships from a Jordanian university but wasn’t at all keen to take them up because they would mean I will put years of my life as unwilling hostages to my sponsors.

The odds were not exactly in my favor in getting this studentship. The university gives out only three of these full studentships for the entire pool of international PhD applicants, so I wasn’t optimistic about nabbing one. I had been obsessive-compulsively checking my inbox for a week before receiving that email, and when I did receive it, I scanned it looking for key words indicating regret. I was looking for “sorry” and instead I read “happy.”

For a minute I thought I didn’t read it correctly. I read “happy” again, then I found “successful application” and my heart instantly started racing. I gasped for air as I held my quivering tummy in place, I felt so sick I almost puked. I continued to feel physically unwell for the following two days. Every time I thought about the marvelousness of what had happened to me, I felt incredibly ill. At one point I cried of joy; this was finally happening.

Life is working out in my favor, and it’s about bloody time, too! I can’t relate my feelings in words even if I tried, since this is a monumental event that has changed my life and will continue to do so for many years to come. My acceptance at the PhD program last winter was a magnificent success, particularly because I got in despite parental opposition and after a long struggle with societal pressures to submit to a destiny crafted by others. My blood and tears were not in vain after all and I say this quite literally. This recent validation of my stubborn determination makes my dream all the more precious, all the more tangible. I can almost taste it and, to their chagrin, so can they.

I have never been happier in my entire life. Never have I felt so comfortable being who I am, never so free. I am eagerly awaiting my transition from limbo to life and, as ever, keeping my eyes on the prize. Future, here I come!

Someone told me yesterday that I have lost my edge. I suppose that misjudgment came about because I am generally more relaxed now, a little more focused, a little less reckless. I am a happier person, even though I am dreadfully more politically savvy and bordering on hypocritical out of necessity. These are temporal sacrifices I must make and keep my eyes on the prize.

That said, the down side for this long-coveted freedom is that I must survive on a limited budget these days. Taking concrete steps toward joining the line of career that I want for myself means starting anew, and starting anew means starting from scratch, and scratch means little or no money. It’s no help that I’ve just returned from a long vacation where I indulged myself a little too much.

Tomorrow marks the start of a new chapter in my life. I will be starting an internship program directly relevant to my studies and actively seeking new opportunities for academic and professional growth. I will work on my project in-between meetings and reports, and I will trick security to let me park my car in the “employees only” area instead of outside the premises. I will also cut my hair and change the spelling of my name in all official documents. I might even find a real job.

I’m excited but I’m wary, and I’m definitely broke.

I woke up this morning and wondered if today will be any slower than yesterday. I read the final eight pages of an Arabic novel which was resting on the red sofa next to my bed; the eight pages I couldn’t finish hours before, at 3 AM, because I was suddenly lulled by the tolerable heat and the miraculous absence of mosquitoes. I even covered myself, contrary to tradition.

I resisted the temptation to continue my last night’s blues, an otherwise chronic depression, and I sailed through the last eight pages. When I was done, I felt an overwhelming desire to shout. The novel ended well but I wanted more, I wanted something tangible.

I picked another book to read. Edward Said’s memoirs, which had been resting on my bookcase since May, and which I grabbed many times only to put down for another choice, were almost starting to gather dust. I think I was scared of Said’s elaborate English. I returned to my bed, not opening the shutters and leaving the room soaking in the dark orange light and the sleepy hotness of this morning, and I started to read the preface.

My mother knocked on the door and entered. She asked me to drive her to my uncle’s place, so I left Said on my bed and got dressed. I did as I was told, stopping on the way at the curtain shop, where my mother slipped inside for a moment and came back without the big bag of textile that she previously had with her.

When I was done with my errand, and my mother was safely inside my uncle’s house, I realized I had nothing to do today. I took the left turn towards downtown Amman, instead of going straight ahead and returning home. Nobody’s going to miss me anyway, I thought.

I do not know how I did not cause an accident. I was incredibly absorbed in thought, completely absentminded, as I stared at the shop signs that I have seen before and tried to guess where to go next. Where was that Rolex store which my father always told stories about? I looked for familiar places where I had been with my mother when I was a little girl, where she would get buttons or textiles or bridal accessories for my sister, and I found only some. Even Al Sa7a Al Hashmiyyeh no longer existed as it used to. Now it is a changed place, it is somewhat clean, and there aren’t as many Iraqi men lurking around as there used to be in the past. How we avoided them on our way to the old bus station! — that, too, was moved nearer to Mahatta.

The brain erases things you no longer use, or it pushes them so far back in the caves of your head that you no longer realize they exist. I felt these memories crawling out of their caves, yawning, poking fun at me for thinking they died. I felt like a little girl again.

Souq Mango, Souq el Sokkar, Share3 el Salt, Ahmad Awad, Share3 el Ousat, Maktabt el 3olama, Souq el Balabseh, Souq el Bokhariyyeh, Bayazeed, Souq el Dahab… My mother holding my hand and hurrying from one shop to the other, knowing exactly where her goal is, and reminiscing about the old days when her mom used to take her to these places, bragging that she used to walk all these streets and even more from home to school, so I shouldn’t complain that I am tired.

I noticed a number of new bookshops and other stores during my cruise. Some trendy-ish places opening right around Tal3et Jabal Amman. I thought it was a crime against the place. Why do we always want to ruin what’s authentic with what’s contemporary solely because it is new?

I wanted to park the car somewhere and take a walk. I was already past the Shapsough parking, which for the record does not belong to my mother’s modest part of the family, and I couldn’t find anywhere to just leave Havana and take to the streets. I wanted to buy books from the new stores or from kiosks, and I was desperate for some hot, juicy, Sfee7a, and a Pepsi. I wanted to hold beauty still for a moment.

While I looked on from the window, I realized that nobody can discern what I think unless I articulate it. The people downtown all seemed busy being idle; walking, waiting to cross the street, pausing, moving around, but not doing anything in specific. They all seemed unreal because they didn’t talk to me, images I can shrug off because they are not personal.

I saw a couple of old apartments for rent, too, and wondered how much it costs to live downtown. It either costs a lot, or little. Is it difficult to live downtown? The many small hotels with brief names and narrow dark stairs mustn’t cost much. I have always fantasized about staying in one of these hotels, but this morning I imagined it would mean having to lock the door and taking a series of necessary safety precautions, because I am female, and then my fantasy seemed devoid of romance.

I cannot say if I feel better after my trip down memory lane, or rather after using this cliché. The freshness of my thoughts and feelings seems to wither very quickly and I can never rely on it. I think I need another therapeutic session, maybe a fight or two, to return to normal, whatever that is.

Episode I

Tololy walks around in her high-heeled black patent leather shoes, when a married cousin gasps and stops her dead in her tracks.

Cousin: WHAT are these things in your ears?
Tololy: Earrings.
Cousin: WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MANY?
Tololy: Because I like them.
Cousin: Are they real?
Tololy: Yes.
Cousin: Why, why, why did you mutilate your ears so?
Tololy: Because I like piercings.
Cousin: But, but, your ears have so many holes in them now!
Tololy: So?
Cousin: So…they’re mutilated. I bet getting them pierced was painful too.
Tololy: Yes it was, but that was OK.
Cousin: Why would you do that to yourself?
Tololy (wanting to end the conversation): These are not new by the way. You’ve seen them before.

Episode II

Tololy sits on a chair and listens to a conversation between two women, now nodding, now smiling. One of her cousins starts a conversation with her.

Cousin: Short hair suits you very well!
Tololy: Thanks!
Cousin: When did you cut your hair? I remember you had really long hair…
Tololy: Oh, it’s been this short for over two years.
Cousin: I haven’t seen you for that long?

Episode III

Tololy’s cousin’s wife is very religious. She stands up at the end of the gathering and distributes religious brochures. Tololy is handed one about Ramadan and fear of god, which she quickly turns into a fan, then a cigarette.

Episode IV

Lady: What is that in your nose?
Tololy: A nose ring.
Lady: Oh. I see.

Episode V

It is food time. All the ladies gather around the table and start to fill their plates.
Lady: Ooh…who made the cheesecake?
Mom: My daughter x made this and that, and my daughter y made this, this, and these.
Lady: And what did Tololy make?
Mom: Umm…
Tololy: I provided emotional support.
Mom: She acted as our chauffeur, you know, took us places, got the kids home from school…
Lady: Ah.

Naturally, with every kiss I planted on each of the ladies’ cheeks, I heard a wish that I would get married. They wished that the next time they gather, it would be in my house, or that the next “happy event” will be my wedding.

The older ones seemed to be particularly interested in my getting hitched soon, and it’s funny because as far as I know they’re not entirely happy in their marriages or lives in general. For that reason alone, I believe that enthusiastically wishing someone marriage is actually a facade for a malevolent desire to spread one’s misery. In the very best cases, it is a ready-made expression which renders people into annoying parrots.

Today I enjoyed myself and I enjoyed life. I didn’t for a single moment let a negative thought creep into my head, and I had a blast like only a Leo could.

I am lucky to have wonderful friends who love me for who I am and who never judge me no matter what improprieties I commit. I am lucky to have an amazingly insane family who, even though we drive each other up the wall on a daily basis, love me and are proud of me underneath it all. Maybe when I turn 25 they will come out and say it out loud! They threw me a very nice party yesterday, complete with home-made cupcakes and flowers and everything.

Since last year, numerous events sculpted my meaning today. I went through revolutionary times, then through mortally depressing times, then through anticipatory times, then through experimental times, then, eventually, now, I am going through another rebirth. I feel liberated but my freedom is not yet complete and I must fight until I have it all. I am at a crossroads in my life, and luckily, I am still alive to take the route I desire.

It’s an outside-self experience for me to say that I am 24. It will take me about 6 months to digest the thought, then it will be time to change the number again. But who’s counting, anyway?

It’s absurd that I am writing you a note and publishing it, a blatant contradiction in terms similar to saying “I am discreet but I have an exhibitionistic flare,” but I will do it anyway because I must unload my mind right this minute or I will lose this pressing idea. You know that my ideas are generally evanescent, you can’t blame me.

I believe I am about to change again. In the series of changes that make up who I am, this one is not yet very defined but I promise it will be extraordinary. I can feel it. There is a rush to it, a certain bitter taste at first which later turns sweet then insipid right when another change comes along.

It’s an accelerating feeling of getting close to something entirely authentic. At a certain distance I will have to decide if I want to embrace it, and that moment is always the most painful. Remember the last time I changed? It took years for me to finally muster up enough courage to shed my previous skin, and it’s an ongoing process still, faced with many obstacles and far from being complete.

It’s wonderful how other people can inspire improvement. I am fortunate to know some of these rare specimens of human excellence. I suppose they are models of godliness in their capacity to breathe life into other minds. To meet someone like that is a true privilege, so you should never compromise on the quality of company you keep. Remember this bit whenever you question your life choices. Also remember that while the public does not think, there is an intellectual elite hidden somewhere who make basking in their light worth the pain of brushing the masses aside.

Now back to work.
Tololy

There is a cloud of sadness hovering over my father’s head now. I can’t imagine how it feels like to lose a sibling. Does it feel like you lost a piece of you — what piece? Does it feel like you are finished and cannot go on? Does it feel like you’ve become a barren tree? I don’t know. I guess it depends how close you were to that sibling during their life.

Upon hearing the news, my initial reaction was complete disconnection. I tend to distance myself like that and treat death as a fact instead of being emotional about it. I suppose it’s a tactic for handling the situation, but it’s definitely aided by the fact that I wasn’t particularly close to my late uncle.

When I went to my late uncle’s house, where my cousins were receiving condolences, I felt my heart shrink as I climbed the narrow stairs. There was something overwhelmingly morbid about the yellowness of the stairs and the distant Quranic recitation coming down from the living room. I had to remove my bright red nail polish before visiting, because my mother said it would be insensitive to keep it on and go to a “condolences house.”

The trip up the stairs was historic, I hadn’t gone up these stairs for five years. My last memory of the staircase and the Quranic verses traveling downwards, the mumblings of dark women clad in black, the smell of death and coffee, was when I went up the same stairs to say goodbye to my late aunt. She was something else, what I felt for her then was on a whole different level from what I felt yesterday — and understandably so. The physical settings, however, did not change a bit.

It was heartbreaking to sit in the living room with the women, my cousins and other relatives, and not be able to truly share their sorrow. I felt sad because they were sad, and when one of them broke out in muffled tears my heart jumped out to soothe her pain. I wanted to tell them it was not the end of the world, but I knew that to them it seemed a lot like it. I couldn’t help feeling helplessly insensitive and cruel for thinking I could argue them out of their sadness.

Sitting there on a gray plastic chair in one corner of the room, I tried my best to avoid eye contact. Women came and kissed my cheeks and asked me if I was “Khalid’s daughter,” and I said yes. I didn’t know any of them and they must have sensed how lost I was when I flashed smiles at them, so they introduced themselves by their men (I am X’s wife, X’s mother). I felt incredibly small. I didn’t know any of them and yet they knew me (or my father), and they were family. How do you justify that to yourself, not knowing your own family?

Next to me was sitting an ancient woman in a traditional black velvet dress, with a crooked cane next to her and a number of green tattoos on her face. Her name was Um Abdullah, and she liked coffee. Her face was so wrinkled and her back arched and she couldn’t walk on her own, but she asked for her cup of coffee to be extra full and sat there sipping it like a queen.

The whole affair looked almost identical to my late aunt’s departure. There were less women but the procedures were the same. Coffee offered, dates, lunch and parts of the Quran. Very few women bothered to read Quran, most opted for sitting around and chatting the social obligation away. They talked about their husbands, upcoming family marriages, food… mundane subjects in the presence of death.

I tried to conjure up memories involving my late uncle. I thought if I could remember sweet things he did for me or parts of his character I would be better able to relate to his death. By knowing what was no longer there, I might feel bad and maybe shed a few tears and fit in where I was. All I could remember was his tall and strong build, his gray hair, and his playing zahar with my dad in Samara. Then someone started crying, so I wiped my tears away. I had a headache by then because I had been thinking too hard.

It’s eerie that the night before last I had a dream that my late aunt was visiting my late uncle. I don’t remember the details of the dream but it was disturbing and I woke up feeling uneasy. It was weird but I attributed it to my having discussed my uncle’s situation with someone that day. A day later, he died and the dream came true.

It’s this sea of mixed feelings that’s confusing me. I am working normally, going to school and going about my daily business normally when my uncle has just died. I go to offer my condolences and I cannot even cry, and all I can think of is my late aunt. There is a huge divide between what I should be feeling and doing and what I am actually feeling and doing. It’s uncomfortable feeling inexplicably harsh and aloof.