The art of hunting down the Damascene gazelle…

They say men are hunters, but as far as I know women are historically the ones who have set up the trap. I think women have succeeded in manipulating men into the point of making them believe they, men, were the hunters. One secret women keep to themselves and pass on mother to daughter, is the fact they make men do what they want them to do by the power of suggestion. A woman never “tells” a man what to do, lest he rebels. She suggestively implies what is needed to be done, he picks up on it and thinks it was his idea and makes it happen. Women are ego-less, they don’t look for credit, they look for results. Men care about the process, they have to be in charge, their effort needs to be recognized, so women give them that to allow life’s possibilities unfold.

I know I am betraying my female species by making these revelations, but throughout history underground music, cults and beliefs were allowed to make a small and humble appearance into public domains. By the same token, I am tempted to say ever since I arrived in Damascus I realized the art of hunting down the Damascene man was a science that has gone well past the trial-and-error threshold. Having spent most of my life in Jordan (where women are said to be tough and man-like – no offense ladies!), I find myself making quantum leaps in my understanding of the art of temptation. Since the dawn of history, Syrian women have passed down this science genetically. Women over here are gurus when it comes to making the man “walk on dough without upsetting it” (loool) – (not all of them of course, you still find the ones who are very prone to creating train crashes instead of romantic stories). Come to think of it, the stories I heard were not about all-Syrian women; the car-crash love story my cousin was telling me about the other day was about an Iraqi-origin girl. Hmmm, which makes you think, maybe the Syrian gazelle hunting techniques are flawless!

Being half Syrian, I find a whole suite of cells waking up to their genetic powers. Insights into the man’s psyche come to me effortlessly, although such insights were seldom there in previous lives. You suddenly start knowing when to pull back, when to express interest… like tide. He doesn’t show enough emotion? No prob, give him the poker face with a dash of cold-shouderness and a bit of I’m-beside-myself attitude… and watch him fondly run to you. Yislam la 2albee

Damascene men are unlike the rough-versioned man you find in other countries. The Damascene man is fragile (it doesn’t mean he’s not Man), you gotta treat him with a lot of care because he’s got “heart.” He feels you, knows what goes on in your head, cares to see you happy. Unlike the Jordanian disaster-of-a-man, Damascene men are warm and beautiful. In Jordan, falling in love is like walking on blades and through a landmine, perched on a bed of red-hot coal, dotted with broken glass and… salt.

Damascene men don’t think it’s unmanly to state they listen to romantic pop music. In Jordan he would become laughing stock with a revelation like that. The important thing is, the Damascene man is every bit of a man, a rare spectacle in this time and age: He’s honorable, helps, loves, cares, keeps his word, apologizes, leads, follows, and has a strong moral foundation.

Syrian women have kept their men safe from knowing the “secret of the trade,” so their men won’t “see” the harmless little love trickery they apply to win them over. That’s the beauty of the hunt. Your beautiful gazelle is clueless, he’s got a heart of gold and you have all the love and fondness to make him die for love.

If anyone asks you
how the perfect satisfaction
of all our sexual wanting
will look, lift your face
and say,

Like this.

When someone mentions the gracefulness
of the nightsky, climb up on the roof
and dance and say,

Like this.

If anyone wants to know what “spirit” is,
or what “God’s fragrance” means,
lean your head toward him or her.
Keep your face there close.

Like this.

When someone quotes the old poetic image
about clouds gradually uncovering the moon,
slowly loosen knot by knot the strings
of your robe.

Like this.

If anyone wonders how Jesus raised the dead,
don’t try to explain the miracle.
Kiss me on the lips.

Like this. Like this.

When someone asks what it means
to “die for love,” point
here.

If someone asks how tall I am, frown
and measure with your fingers the space
between the creases on your forehead.

This tall.

The soul sometimes leaves the body, the returns.
When someone doesn’t believe that,
walk back into my house.

Like this.

When lovers moan,
they’re telling our story.

Like this.

I am a sky where spirits live.
Stare into this deepening blue,
while the breeze says a secret.

Like this.

When someone asks what there is to do,
light the candle in his hand.

Like this.

How did Joseph’s scent come to Jacob?

Huuuuu.

How did Jacob’s sight return?

Huuuu.

A little wind cleans the eyes.

Like this.

When Shams comes back from Tabriz,
he’ll put just his head around the edge
of the door to surprise us

Like this.

- Jelaluddin Rumi

Whirling Love in Damascus can be watched slow-motion!

One good thing about hitting one’s 30s (and being Sufi – lol) is that ability to clearly see Cupid’s arrow as it hits one’s heart – in slow motion. You see it flying through one day from some corner in Damascus, somewhere in existence, and you know you’re going to fall in love on Sunday. You’re so used to crashing into walls, experiencing the dramas of love, life and loss, that now you are an expert around love’s cruel territory, knowing it like the back of your hand – from A-Z. Actually in this case, it’s pre-A to Zee. I sniffed that arrow miles away before it was even strung to the bow! I love you, Damascus!

I was minding my own business one day, when I started feeling something was changing in the atmosphere. Love has a certain… presence: Room temperature changes, eyes become softer, heart lighter, a certain kind of music starts playing on radios.

Love likes to make a subtly dramatic entrance into one’s life. In your 30s you become a radar of the 1st order for all of love’s signs. I knew someone was falling in love from very subtle changes in their attitude, voice, attention to detail. When a man develops a radar-screen for the details of your conversation, the way you move, the drops and peeks in your voice… you gotta be careful there: They are falling for you!

They fall for you, you fall for them and the most beautiful dance starts, especially when the other person has no clue you know they’re in love. You watch them try to stop the flood that cracks open their heart’s dam, and when they don’t succeed they resort to a different tactic: Let’s interrogate her. They start wanting to know you more, because they need to verify this love. They find themselves unable to stop the flood even with all the scary information. They cannot find an explanation for what is happening, so they start acting a little bit rude around you to hide their feelings, yet they melt like a marshmallow when you look at them. And if they’re a sucker for wits, they melt like soft butter in one’s mouth when you say something smart. And because you’re at peace with your love for them, you watch them fondly as they struggle to make sense of what’s hit them. And because they are pure with a heart of light, you can see love from behind the transparent facade of their hearts, bubbling slowly, giving them headaches, making them want to be around you.

How to detect love’s arrow?

You start “seeing” things you were too busy to notice before. The other day I noticed that Saht el Marjeh (Marjeh Plaza) had water fountains, a bridge and was more than just a round-about. That was one of the first signs that assured me I was slipping deeper into love!

However, detecting arrow-motion before it hits, is a different story all together. You know it’s approaching from that one little incident, one little gesture that changes your focus and attention and makes you move through space & time in a different manner. You start gliding… that’s when the arrow is not to miss (you start gliding so wherever you are, in whatever mood you are, the arrow would rip through the matrix of existence and get you right there and then. Time and space quantinums bend around for Love’s arrival. I don’t see them doing that for struggle, war, or hate. We never glide when in conflict!). You start gliding and you look around and start observing. “Why is he saying this?” is the first thing you ask yourself when you notice the changed thickness in atmosphere and mood. Ah, well, it seems I’m going to fall in love Sunday!

One night a man was crying Allah! Allah!
His lips grew sweet with praising,
until a cynic said, “So!
I’ve heard you calling out, but have you ever
gotten any response?”

The man had no answer to that.
He quit praying and fell into a confused sleep.
He dreamed he saw Khidr, the guide of souls,
in a thick, green foliage.

“Why did you stop praising?” “Because
I’ve never heard anything back.”

“This longing you express
is the return message.”

The grief you cry out from
draws you toward union.

Your pure sadness
that wants help
is the secret cup.

Listen to the moan of a dog for its master.
That whining is the connection.

There are love dogs
no one knows the names of.

Give your life
to be one of them.

- Jelaluddin Rumi

Blues-filled Friday in love-dressed Damascus

All day long I’ve been brooding on variations on the same theme: Visible reality v.s invisible reality.

We have eyes that see flesh, not intestines. Behind every person’s exterior, there are bones, blood vessels and a whole world buzzing with life. Beyond bones and cells and biological systems that keep us alive there lies Lady Soul. It’s very difficult to unveil Soul when eyes are trained to see obvious things only: How he looks like, his tone, his writing and communication style, his mood swings (or lack of them), his voice, his gaze into space around him… all of these things don’t say much about his heart, his soul, his inner most self.

I have recently banished someone from my landscapes. I couldn’t take the childishness any more although deep down in my heart I knew this person was… good. All day long, I have been trying to decide whether I should feel guilty about cutting this person off just because they depleted every drop of energy I had for God knows how many months. I am not sure if as a Sufi I was supposed to be more patient, focusing my love and attention on this person’s goodness and my absolute knowledge of their inner beauty. I’m sorry God, I am only human, I have reached my limits, I have reached a point where my skin was starting to crack open ready for my soul to leave, for some people are too heavy to carry around sometimes.

I just opened The Essential Rumi, by Jelualuddin Rumi, the Sufi love poet I so love, on:

If you want what visible reality

can give, you’re an employee.

If you want the unseen world,

you’re not living your truth.

Both wishes are foolish,

but you’ll be forgiven for forgetting
that what you really want is

love’s confusing joy.

Amen! This does set one free! Thank you Sheikh Rumi, Qaddasa Allahu Sirrok. SIGH!

Loving Damascus through Ibn Arabi’s eyes

My heart has become capable of all forms:
A pasture for gazelles, a monastery for monks,
A temple for idols, the Kabah of the pilgrims,
The tablets of Torah, the Book of Quran.
I profess the religion of Love.
Whatever direction love’s camels take,
That is my religion and my faith.

— Ibn Arabi, Tarjuman al-ashwaq

A friend of mine took me on a tour to Old Damascus last evening. He told me he saw the above mentioned lines from Ibn Arabi’s poetry on a wall in Narenj, a Bab Charqi restaurant with yummy food, a few days ago. I read the same line a few days ago in an unpublished play written by a young Syrian playwright. It is amazing how life likes to present the same theme, all in different contexts, within a single week!

I have this same quote on my other blog, the one I keep for writing about musical activities and stuff like that. Sometimes you feel the whole world can revolve around someone’s few words. As Hamlet says: “Words, words, words,” indicating the amount of gibberish the world contains. A few words from Ibn Arabi can become the galaxy inside which mystical journeys take place. This is the greatness of the Sufi self, it is a world on its own, floating in dimensions unknown to the naked eye.

Ibn Arabi is one of the stars of Sufism. He is buried, Qaddasa Allahu ٍٍٍSirroh, at the foot of Jebal Qasyoun. People come from all around the world to visit his tomb. One of his most well known books is called The Meccan Revelations (Al Futoo7at Al Makkiya). It can be found at Al Noori bookstore on one’s way to Hijaz Railway.

Ibn Arabi, like Jelaluddin Rumi, talk about God from a context of Love. Love is the true religion that purifies souls, not prejudice, not judgment. Love is the hidden thread that brings together the beads of existence. It is what makes people stand up for their Damascus. It is what makes people travel vast expanses of mother earth to reach Ibn Arabi’s tomb. Love is the river of tears we cry when our heart opens up for an experience. Love is the painful joy that makes us leave everything behind for our Damascus.

Ibn Arabi’s Damascus is the Damascus I am in love with, deeply, eternally. The Meccan Revelations come in nine volumes (Arabic Edition). they consist of highly coded, sophisticated, difficult, Sufi concepts. The Key to understanding them is very simple: Open your Heart. Heart, the center of love, is the one that will “understand” the text, not Ego, nor mind. Open your Heart.

5 things a Sufi woman takes on a Damascus trip!

I’m listening to this CD by Hamza Shakkur (the Sufi chanter from Aleppo). I’m supposed to be writing a feature about Nokia for my magazine, but fatigue has crept into my day. So I thought to myself, a little bit of Sufism might lift up my morale (and subsequently, my energy levels).

I actually have the original copy of the CD signed by Shakkur. I met him when I was … in my twenties (this doesn’t mean I’m in my forties now!). I auditioned for him. My mom, a poet, wanted his honest opinion about my voice. He was encouraging, and his presence left me with a permanent image of him in my head and heart; I guess that’s what we call: Love. (I ended up becoming a singer-songwriter and a journalist/writer, so I can’t complain about that audition).

My painting talents, on the other hand, faced a harsher reality. One day, my mom asked me to show a very well-known Egyptian painter and caricaturist some of my sketches. In front of mom, he said: “Allah, eh daaa? EH DAAA?? Da gameel awii. This is fantastic, what great talent you have!”… When my mom turned her back and went upstairs to get the water melons and cheese he whispered to me: “Pssst, come closer, I have somesing to tell you. You suck at visual arts, forget about painting and concentrate on your music… this crap (meaning my cute paintings) will take you no where. Be realistic and drop it now before it’s too late.” When my mom returned, he put on a big smile and said: “MashAllah, I was telling Ruba what a talented girl she is, 7aga gameelaaa khalesss!” He then looked at me and a spark came out of the corner of one of his eyes.

I went upstairs to my room, heart broken and crushed. Obviously, I didn’t venture too much into painting after that point, but continued on the path of music and writing. I don’t know whether to thank or hate the paintings guy. He’s dead now. Allah yir7amo.

The two stories I mentioned are parodies about evil and Light. Habboush will forever live in my heart as a beautiful rose, the other dude will always be my first encounter with the art of “Machiavellian-ism.” Before that incident I had an image in my head about artists; that they were people with great sensitivity, honor and higher ideals. I was 16 when I discovered otherwise.

But a few years later, I had the chance to redeem that image of purity with Habboush. I remember listening to him sing was mesmerizing. He didn’t look like he was with us in the room when he called out “Alllaaaaaaah,” or when he repeated “Allahuma Salli 3ala Mo7ammad” (God’s prayers on Mohammad – that’s not the way to translate it, I’m too tired to go google the English equivalent).

Later on in life I became a Sufi myself. By “became” I mean I “became aware of it.” It’s a long story really! This CD belongs to my mom, for years I have been “borrowing it.” I borrow it for a few years, then I decide it’s time to give it back, so I give it back, then I borrow it for another 5 years, then I give it back. Last time I gave it back for 5 months, but when I decided to come live in Damascus, I brought it along with me. It is an “essential,” as a face-value magazine like Cosmopolitan would put it.

I imagine them running a feature about “Five Things a Sufi Woman would take on a trip to Damascus”:

• Hamza Habboush CD (available on Amzon.com for ….)
• Sufi Mascara, water proof and non-runny (sold for Blah$ at Blah & Blah).
• Sufi clothes that look like every body else’s really!
• A weird sense of humor on fatigue-y days.
• A Rosary made of rose-tree wood. (the rose tree part is to add a touch of mysticism, I have no idea what wood my Rosary is made of …

I guess I’m done with my daily dose of Sufi ramblings. I wonder if I have enough energy now to lift myself up and go drink some water… Blukh!

Art of Dialogue

Ancient Arabs are the fathers and mothers of “Majaz” (metaphor). They used to apply metaphor in conversations that would sound pretty obscure to the modern interpreter, because a conversation would sound like this:

Arab Man: Falcons fly high all the time.

Arab Woman: Falcons fly high because God willed it.

Arab Man: Is it not God’s will that they keep on flying high?

Arab Woman: This is a secret known only to God.

Arab Man: God sends messengers to reveal His message.

Arab Woman: We bow to God and accept his message.

This is an example of a man asking a woman for her hand – she was vague at first, but towards the end she accepted him. It could have been about a man telling a woman about what a great guy he is, with the woman deflating his ego in a gentle, wise way that respects the etiquette of conversation. But what really steers a conversation is great wit, connection to nature and intution, an accumulative heritage of metaphors and connotations, an ability to reapply meanings, re-create new metaphors, and apply known idioms and sayings to serve your argument… most importantly it takes “Firasa” – deep intuition.

An argument in olden Arab times was like a dance. People wooed each other, rejected or accepted, negotiated, insulted and convinced each other using subtle messages & connotations, all applied courteously. There are poets who have been known to be so good at what they do (playing with words) that it was hard to figure out whether they insulted or praised someone with the stanza they created about a Khalifa, a ruler or just someone they met in the street.

Today, things are very much different. Conversation is most of the time straight-forward-looking (while intentions might be steered in other directions… which means lack of integrity in many cases). Today, dialogue in Arabia has some aspects of aggression; you see bloggers shooting each other down with their blogs (the writer here being no exception; I did it once and regret it terribly), you see people on TV humiliating each other although the topic they are discussing might be about freedom of expression, a higher ceiling for thought, progress and development.

One TV show that encourages the habit of “character assassination” is Al Jazeera TV’s “Al Itijah el Mo3akes.” You see two people on coal accusing each other of things like lack of patriotism, short sightedness, stupidity, with a host who “applies fuel over fire” to make it an interesting show. The fact that this show is one of the most viewed among Arabs around the world (as rumor has it) is an indication of so many things.

I would have loved to see a show that adheres to old Arab rules of conversation, where two people sit and talk in code, whose biggest insult to another is in the mention of a line from Al Motanabbee’s poetry, who would be discussing ideals, negotiating stands, arguing thoughts in that respectful, witty, cultivated type of conversation.

In Sufism, wisdom is applied in conversations in ways that would sound too difficult for the fiery, stormy kind of converser. Injury of the person in front of you is the last thing you have in mind. Injury of yourself by another is also the last thing you want. The person in front of you might say something that reflects ego, lack of knowledge, shortsightedness, but it’s not your job to insult them for that. If the person you are talking to is hung up on something it’s not your duty to tear them to pieces.

Sufism tells us to look inside us first. Whatever we accuse others of having, starts within us first. If one brings someone down to shreds because one thinks the other gives an x matter a bad name, then odds are it starts within oneself.

We are each other’s mirrors. If you see ugly people around, then it is your own image you are seeing. If you see no one, then you are seeing The One.

On being 50% Syrian

Identity is a very interesting matter. The way we choose to define ourselves has become the vocation for many studies centers around the world. Polls have been carried out in USA, Jordan and elsewhere to see how 2nd and 3rd Arab Americans see themselves, how Muslim and Christian descendants dealt with it “differently” (and as studies by the Arab American Institute indicate, they do!), and how 2nd generation Jordanians from different “roots” saw themselves.

Some people see themselves as citizens of the world, others as 100% American (even though both their grandparents were born Syrian). Some like to think of them selves as Palestinian, Chechen, Armenian, even if they were born in Damascus with parents born in Damascus, and grandparents hailing from God knows where.

Identity is a matter of choice at the end of the day. It’s about self-image. Self branding (if you like to use marketing jargon!). Some people succumb to the collective self-image and choose to walk with the herd, but it is still a self-image that was started somewhere by someone, controlled by some ideology.

What really matters is “Heart.” Where does your heart find itself. My heart is half Syrian, has always been like that, since my mother is from a Syrian Family. This half is more important to me than the “other half,” which I consider to be a vague mishmash of identities that I don’t like to venture into (it includes identity crisis inherited from my ancestors, society and the role the media plays in shaping what we believe who we are).

If I were to define myself, I could start by saying I am Arab, Jordanian, half Syrian, with Palestinian, Tunisian, Lebanese and Moroccan roots. But every time I am asked that question, I find myself changing the order around, skipping a detail, ignoring another… Identity can be moody sometimes!

My mother is a feminist and I learnt from her that women do count when we look back at our “roots.” I have Moroccan great grandmothers, Tunisian great grandparents (dad’s side), my grandpa from mom’s side is a Sufi teacher who has uncles and great grand parents hailing from Morocco – from his mother’s side. His father is a Syrian Sufi who served as Qa’em Maqam in Bqaa’ Lebanon and a Sufi leader.

Greater Syria (the Levant) has today’s Syria in the equation. It is very difficult to define one’s identity when one rejects the sanctity of Sykes Peko. I still believe that there is a Greater Syria. Of course I can’t voice this opinion everywhere I go because the world has gone insanely pro Sykes Peko, but in my heart I believe Damascus is the Capital of Greater Syria.

In the days of my ancestors it was one world, no passports, one bloc, one Greater Syria. I have heard endless stories about the Sufi travels of my grandparents, the Sufi travels of my ancestors under the Ottoman regime… Things were viewed differently back then, it was a different world, and we’re not talking about millions of years ago, we are talking about a few decades ago only! All those stories shape my heritage, my very personal heritage.

50% Syrian, owing to the fact my mother comes from a Syrian family, (also with varying roots when you calculate in great grandmothers, great grand uncles, etc), is perfectly fine with me. It is where my heart is.