Anonymous asked:

انا باحب الي بتكتبيه ونفسى تعمليلى فولوباك اوى :) انا لو طلبت منك فولو حتعمليلى؟

.شكراً، بس لا
أنا ٩٠٪ من الوقت يا أنونـ/ـة لما حد بيعملي فولو بدخل على البلوج بتاعته و أشوف محتواها و كدة، أنا بيعجبني المحتوى الأصلي، يعني حد بيكتب/بيحط صور تبعه، يكون هو إللي كاتب أو مصور الصور إللي في البلوج، إللي بلاقي حاجته أوريجينال و مواضيع كويسة بعمله فولو باك، فـ أقدر أقولك إني بالفعل أكيد شفت البلوج بتاعتك بما إنك عاملـ/ـة فولو و مش عجبتني، و الفولو مش بالطلب حقيقي
بس شكراً جداً كمان مرة :)

Old pictures.

I was going through the folders on my laptop to see what I needed and what I didn’t so I could delete whatever I didn’t need.
I started with the music folder and clicked “play all” to listen to every song in it and delete the ones I don’t like anymore.
While listening to the songs, I stumbled upon the pictures folder and thought “why not go through this one too?”

I started going through all the sub-folders, and for a second, I felt I was drowned by the flood of memories in it.

#1: A picture of me with my childhood friend, Ghada, wearing dresses -at home- and “modeling” because we had nothing else to do but trying every single piece of clothing I had and taking model-like pictures. -20/08/2011, 07:03 PM.

#2: A picture of that tall tree in front of my room window in Egypt. I remember the smallest details of that picture. I was sitting on the ground with Ghada, talking about doomsday and the end of the world, it was 5 in the morning and we discussed the whole thing for three hours. After we’ve done talking about serious shit, Ghada kept taking pictures of random stuff. This tree was one of them. -20/08/2011, 08:00 AM.

#3: A picture of me lying on bed in my room in Saudi Arabia, eating Cheetos, and laughing my ass off about some inappropriate stuff my friend said. My smile, the messy curls of my long hair, the way I seem to be enjoying every bit of it. I can almost hear the sound of my laughing now.

#4: A classroom dirty door as a background, an empty school, then there we are. My twin, Randa, Ghadeer, Abrar, Seham, and I, wearing our junior-high uniforms. It was a Wednesday afternoon and it was the end of the business week, any electronic devices were not allowed into schools in Saudi Arabia, yet I brought my camera and insisted that we take this photo on that particular day without a reason. My twin and Ghadeer look so happy, Randa looks so sick, and the rest of us look so into the picture with a smile on our faces. -07/06/2010, 12:45 PM.

#5: A picture of me trying to fix Ghada’s watch, with a serious look on my face, a look that says “I’m trying to fix your freaking watch and you’re just taking photos, great!”. -17/08/2011, 04:41 PM.

#6: A picture of the messy sofa that was brought to my room just so I can throw my clothes on. It was in my room in Saudi Arabia, and I don’t even remember if I ever saw that sofa organized except for the day I was leaving Saudi Arabia forever and had to pack my things. Hmm.. interesting.

I don’t know how long did I spend going through those old pictures, but I know that there’s a part of me that wants to go back in time and live all those memories over and over again, even though some of the pictures were taken when I wasn’t in a good mood, yet I still want to live them again.

I, somehow, miss the old version of me.

Highlights of the week

1. My economics teacher calls me “Fair lady” all the time. Like, ALL THE TIME.

2. My everyday one-hour-trip to college at 6:00 AM.

3. Khaled’s awesome-sauce music that he always sends me.

4. The friendly bus driver who always smiles to passengers and starts conversations with them.

5. The taste of hot coffee I always drink on my way to college.

6. “‏كل سنة و أنتى أحلا :) كان نفسي اديكي عدية شوية شكولاتات و كام فنجان قهوة كدا”

7. I had some time to read and draw instead of being so busy with school work and assignments.

8. Compliments about my taste in music from many different people.

9. Being able to write this blog post after this shitty day.

Is The Charter still valid, Canada?

Scenario #1: Two weeks ago, when I was going back home after a long day at college I saw some very disturbing situation that I wasn’t able to do anything about. I was waiting for the pedestrian crossing light to go green, a Canadian woman with her two young daughters and a man were waiting as well. It was rush hour and everyone was either coming back from work or school. A few seconds later, a veiled (neqabi) woman appeared with her child and waited with us. In that very moment, the Canadian woman started to panic very noticeably. She freaked out and held her daughters’ hands, told them to “keep holding to her hand for now”, and walked them as far as possible from that veiled woman, and as soon as the light went green, she almost ran and kept looking behind her back every now and then to make sure “the monster/the veiled lady” isn’t any close to her or her daughters.

Scenario #2: A year and some months ago, I was a Hijabi. One day, I was waiting for my bus to come and there was a Canadian lady waiting on the same bus stop with me. The lady started a conversation with me and asked about the bus I’m waiting for; I answered her. A few minutes later, another bus come and it turned out that she misheard me because she kept saying that my bus was here, I tried to explain that she misheard me and that it wasn’t my bus, but she knocked me out with a racist comment and said: “Go back to your own country, you don’t have a place here.” She took the bus and I never saw her again.

I want to clarify something here. I am not the type of person who easily cries, I’ve never been and I will never be. It’s in my nature. Some of my friends call me “a piece of ice” because of this and because I never, if I did, cry in front of anyone. But at this very moment, in the middle of the street, I cried until my eyes burned. I cried because I felt humiliated, broken, and useless.

There are a lot of different scenarios and racist comments that I got just because I used to wear a simple piece of fabric over my head.

Racism in Canada generally, and those situations specifically make me think of the following, if Canada will forever and always be the land of democracy and freedom, and Canadians are the most accepting and open population, why is this happening? If you, Canadians, support LGBT, atheists, Jews, and the freedom of everyone else, why can’t you accept bearded men/veiled women?

In 1982, Pierre Trudeau, 15th Prime Minister of Canada, established the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms. The Charter is featured of a lot of sections that I’m not interested in mentioning but only some of them. The Fundamentals Freedoms section states that everyone in Canada has the Freedom of conscious, Freedom of religion, Freedom of thought, Freedom of belief, Freedom of expression, Freedom of the press, Freedom of peaceful assembly, and Freedom of association.

So, why wouldn’t a Muslim woman/man in Canada be able to freely express their religion through their appearance? Is it the veil/beard/headscarf? Because to be honest, I saw a lot of Jews wearing their Kippah and I’ve never heard that one of them was discriminated for wearing it. I get that it’s a “weird” thing to see for Canadians. I lived in Saudi Arabia for 8 years and I saw women wearing black abayas and veils, and it’s still weird for me to see in Canada. The difference is, I don’t freak out and panic and start acting weird.

That brings up another thought in my head, if people panic when they see a bearded/veiled Muslim, is it because “all Muslims are terrorists” or “all Muslims support/belong to ISIS” kind of assumption? Because if that’s the case, then it’s a huge problem that has to be discussed and solved. You can’t just assume that a veiled/bearded Muslim would be walking down the street with a cleaver or a Kalashnikov in their hands to cut your head off your body, just like you can’t assume that a German man is walking with a match box and a bottle of gasoline to set every Jew he sees on fire. It just doesn’t work that way.

Everyone I know, whether it’s a Muslim or not, disapproves what ISIS does, and what has been floating around about Osama Bin Laden for more than 10 years. If the racism most Muslims face here is because of a stereotype that the western media –American media to be specific- has fed your brains with, then Canada needs to pay more attention to its media and the generations that are being raised to such ideas and stereotypes. If it’s because the racist individual had a bad experience with a Muslim before, then it’s some kind of a phobia that goes under psychology, which I wouldn’t be able to talk about for lack of knowledge.

The whole thing is frustrating. Not only because I’ve been through this, but because of the contradictions between the freedom and openness that Canadians claim to have and the way they actually are. If you know anything about Canada, you’d know that Canada’s economy is actually based on immigrants and foreign people –Muslims or not- who come to work/live here. Immigrants are the most important pillar of Canada’s economy because they are basically everywhere, starting from that small grocery store in your area, to the biggest corporations in Canada. Working immigrants and the taxes they pay are why you are able to live on welfare. So, yes, I might “go back to my country because I don’t have a place here”, but I might as well take my dignity, my experience, your country’s economy, and the huge amounts of taxes I pay to keep you living on welfare with me. I, the immigrant, will go back to my country and make it a better place with a better economy; at least I’ll be a princess in my country, not a servant/immigrant in yours.  

arch-bu asked:

that was speechless, no words can describe that, may your Grandpa be In a place better than he was on earth -looking upon you waiting to proud of you, hug you when cry, hear you when you call, live through your happy moments, feel your pain, guide your life with his memorable wise words,

I’m sure he does. He’s one of my 2 guardian angels. :)

A letter that might never be read

Grandpa, it breaks my heart a little every time I think about how supportive and interested in my blog you’d be if you were still here.
You cross my mind way too often, and I’m not bothered by it at all, not in the least possible way. In fact, I’m enjoying it. It draws a smile on your “smart” granddaughter’s face.

I still remember the time when I kept telling you about that computer game I loved. I now realize that nobody really gives a shit about a 13-year-old trying to express her love for a computer game, but you sat there and listened to me for an hour with a smile on your face and gave me the attention a child needed.

I remember the time you brought me some newspaper-wrapped thing, I remember how excited and worried I was that it’d be some kind of a prank and how you kept telling me to open it, I remember the smile on your face and the sound of your laugh with every guess I make, and I remember how happy I was when it turned out to be that toy I liked.
P.S: I still have it, and I used to keep it next to me on the nightstand while I’m asleep.

I still remember the puzzles you used to make me solve, the games we used to play together, the time when you tried to teach me how to play “tawla”, the 50-pound “3eedeya” you once gave me, our conversations, your talks about grandma and how strong you loved her, your huge library and the thousands of books in it, your light-blue suit, your glasses, your cane, your blanket, the blue veins that forced their way through your skin as you grew old, and the smell of your hug.

I still think of that last conversation we had 3 days before you passed away, your last hug, the tears that were like fire in my eyes because I felt that it would be our last hug, my promise that I’d come to visit again very soon, and I’m sorry I didn’t.
I still think of all of this, grandpa, and I let myself be swayed by the flood of memories in my head.

I miss you. May your soul be in eternal happiness and peace.

Your Fatima.

Anonymous asked:

[Give a man a mask, and he will tell you the truth]... - Fear of failure, fear of not being good enough, when you love someone, you lay your heart open. You give them a part of yourself that you give to no one else, and you let them inside a part of you that only they can hurt-you literally hand them the razor with a map of where to cut deepest and most painfully on your heart and soul, afraid of losing piece of my heart with you, fear of can't draw a smile upon your beautiful face.

Okay, I understand.

Anonymous asked:

I had a dream about you last night, I met you for the first time, couldn't look into your eyes, couldn't say a word, But you were stunning like sunrise on blue ocean, confident and perfect like everything is useless without you. , .. >P.S." [I like that smile I give when I get shy and blush] Reading this made my heart beats faster and slower at the same time "

Oh, wow..
That’s.. umm.. I don’t know..
Hmm.. Why wouldn’t you want to tell me who you are? Like, is it a fear of rejection? A fear of taking a step, etc.?