Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Gaza sisters

The girl brought her head down. She swung her legs back and forth under the kitchen table and crossed her arms on the wooden surface. A single braid sat neatly in the middle of her back. A big window behind her framed her profile in the mid morning light. She looked small, too little for an eleven-year old.

Her sister sat to her left. Her head stayed upright, her legs dangled above the floor and she crossed them at the ankles. She ran her hands over her hair, tightened her ponytail, and then brought down her hands to her sides to grip the bottom cushion of her chair. Her size didn't match her age, either. She looked like she was five or six, not ten.

The girls exchanged quick glances then sat perfectly still. They were nervous. We had that in common, at least. I could not clearly see their faces from where I stood at the other end of the big kitchen. But I had seen pictures in their files and had read their psychological evaluations. I was prepared. Or so I thought.

Fatimah and Hala are burn victims from Gaza. They came to Houston for treatment sponsored by the Palestine Children's Relief Fund, or PCRF for short. PCRF is a non-political, non-profit organization dedicated to fighting the medical and humanitarian crisis facing children in the Middle East. The girls could not be treated in besieged Gaza. Doctors and surgeons had volunteered their time and expertise to provide reconstructive surgery for them in Houston. A number of wonderful volunteers were involved in the girls’ unbelievable journey. On my end, I had volunteered my family to host the girls in our house during their stay, and this was my first meeting with them. The month was October, the year 2011.

My daughter and son formed a deep relationship with Fatimah and Hala, and we all kept in touch after they returned to their family in Gaza once they finished their treatment. Now I have no idea what happened to them. I can’t get through on any of the numbers I have for their parents. Their mother was also burned in the same explosion that maimed her girls. PCRF representatives informed me they are also trying to get a hold of them, as well as the other children they helped from Gaza. No news yet.

Today, my daughter asked me about the girls. She said she felt nauseated for not being able to do anything. I had no answers for her. And the little information I could gather was not promising. 

I remember the long nights, when the girls couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard I tried to ease their pain. I remember the way I had to shield them from people’s stares, the many times I had to set strangers straight on how they got hurt. More often than not, people would doubt my account when I mention the Israeli invasion of 2011. But once in a while, informed individuals would briefly close their eyes and mumble, “Yeah. We heard about that.”

Going back to those days, when the girls graced us with their courage, their everlasting smiles, their giggles and tears, their hopes and dreams drawn in crayons and hung on my fridge door, I gulp for air to get rid of a suffocating sensation. We helped them heal, and where are they now? Are they still alive? In what shape or form? What kind of nightmares are they having? Are they with their mother and father? Holding them when they wake up screaming during the night? If they are alive, are they able to sleep? And how many children are burned like them this time around?

I heard my daughter’s voice quiver when she asked, “Will you let me know as soon as you find out anything?” And I’m afraid of what I may have to say.

I can’t, cannot imagine what those mothers who saw their children’s bodies torn by the latest Israeli bombardment on Gaza are going through. What courage, what faith, what strength they have!

How can they go on after this horror?

How can we all?

Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Together We Came!

In celebration of the first annual immigrant heritage month, I am honored to be featured on the Arab American Institute website as part of their Together We came campaign. I shared my story on how I came to the States.

Here's the link: http://www.aaiusa.org/blog/entry/together-we-came-your-stories/

Sunday, June 15, 2014


In honor of my late father on his special Father's Day, I am offering my book Shadows of Damascus for $.99 on Amazon throughout the week.


Happy Father's Day!

Monday, June 9, 2014

An Honest Review

I'd like to share this recent review Shadows of Damascus received since it is not posted on Amazon. My Devotional Thoughts Book Review

"I was especially drawn into the storyline of this book since it involves a Middle Eastern woman and an American soldier. I visited Yemen several years ago, and whenever I read about a story surrounding the Middle East, I find myself greatly intrigued and somewhat reminiscent. In light of the current crisis in Syria (as far as I know, things are still bad there), this romance was quite timely and involving. The book was a simple read in once sense, but it was highly emotional. There were no bedroom scenes, but descriptions of violence and profanity can be found throughout the book. There were times I was so disturbed by the descriptions of violence that I had to give myself a moment to digest the story. Though not for the faint of heart, many will discover a beautiful love story that will reveal things we don’t often contemplate as typical Americans.
One of my favorite parts of the book was the religious depictions within the book. Islam was praised as being a religion of peace in spite of the extremists’ horrific acts. Yasmeen was seen to be as sweet and kind as could be. Adam’s dad, however, had supposedly found God, and his behavior was nothing but hypocritical. I appreciate it when secular books point out this idiosyncratic religious dichotomy. Yes, I am a Christian, but this book reminds me that there is still a dim view of my chosen faith out in the world today. No wonder people are leaving the church in droves!
What I did not like was what I perceived as an abrupt ending. In fact, I found myself searching to make sure that I hadn’t missed a page. I would have preferred a bit more closure, but that is just my humble opinion.
I was sent a copy of this book in exchange for my honest review. I was not financially compensated, and all opinions are 100 percent mine."

Sunday, June 1, 2014


And there it is    that tight squeeze in my chest, that missing breath when I first wake up, that sudden rush of adrenaline making my ears ring, igniting my disoriented brain with the new reality: My father is dead.

What do I do now? How do I get out of bed? Do I go about my day’s chores the way I always have? How could I with the weight of a planet pushing down on me, sinking my head deeper into my pillow?

Go back to sleep.
Go back to dreaming nonsense.
Go back to being unaware.

     Such is God’s Will.

Those words get me up. Words that move my feet and make me brush my teeth and put on the striped t-shirt he liked. I empty the dishwasher and clang dishes too loud, and then I pause. He doesn’t ask me to take it easy, he doesn’t complain about the noise. He doesn’t say anything anymore.

     Be strong.

Two more words carry me through my morning coffee. I use his favorite mug    the one with the Native American scene painted in bright colors, the one that will probably chip or break someday because nothing lasts forever. And where would I be then? Would I still be disjointed like this? Which mug would I use?

I don’t want to be strong, baba. I don’t want to hold it together for everyone’s sake. I want to be weak. I want to collapse and cry and scream and have to take pills to feel numb. I want this gut-wrenching feeling to pass, to go away, to leave me be.

I want to hang on to you, rub your shirt between my fingers like I used to do as a child to fall asleep. I want you to hug me back and say you would squeeze my bones out if I held on any tighter. I want to nag you to check your sugar level before you go to bed every night. 

Okay, make it one more night. Just one!

    Ask for mercy on his soul.

When did I ever stop? When every action, every thought, every breath I took was shaped by his strangely beautiful soul? Why ask God now? God is all knowing, and He must know how I feel. He is watching, listening, always.

I am a product of my father’s actions. I am an extension of his existence. I have a purpose and a road to travel. My father set the course, gave me the tools, and believed in my abilities. He loved me. He loves me still. 

Am I worth it, baba?

Thursday, May 1, 2014

Auction Contribution

Throughout the month of May, I'm offering a free critique of a manuscript and a free E-copy of SHADOWS OF DAMASCUS on the Brenda Novak Online Auction for Diabetes. Check it out and make a bid. It's a great cause and a great way to raise funds for research.

Tuesday, April 29, 2014

If I had never heard of me, would I read my book?

This is a guest post I wrote for the Books and Other Spells website as part of my virtual blog tour:

If I was a romantic at heart, and constantly striving to experience something new, I would read my book. There's a love story that unfolds in very unusual circumstances. There are characters that are too different, too far apart, they don't even understand each other - which made it a bit challenging as a writer. There's a political upheaval that no one seems to understand, or predict how it would settle. And there's an inner strive to not just survive, but to experience life's beauty and embrace it. One has to look hard enough, though.

I would want to know more about this emotionally distant Yasmeen. What made her that way? And why can't she unfold? How many women I know are like her? Would she be able to move on with life, with memories of what she had witnessed screaming loud and clear in her head? I would want to know what mattered to her the most, and would she be able to keep it?

I would want to understand why Adam turned out the way he did. How he managed to hold on to his principles and honor, despite everything he went through. And I would want to see if I could accept his choices and decisions.

If I had never heard of me, I would be intrigued by the foreign name, the timely book title, and the promise of a different kind of romance. Yes, I would read my book. And I would judge, critique, write a review about it, and I would tell my friends whether I liked it or not.