soumaiahashad

[soumaiahashad]

We teach life, sir. 

We Palestinians wake up every morning to teach the rest of the world life, sir!

[soumaiahashad]

[soumaiahashad]

[soumaiahashad]

Finding Myself

It was after a long day at school that I lied down on my bed and placed a cup of green tea and mint on the table next to me. I shifted in bed to find the most comfortable position that would help me detach myself from my surroundings and wander off to another surreal world where nothing is impossible. As soon as I picked up the book and flipped through the pages, I could feel myself departing from this world’s dimensions to another world that had no dimensions. I could see Mary, Tanya and Zoe sitting on the couch in the living room chatting and laughing in Danielle Steel’s world, “The Ranch”. I was there with all my senses; I could smell the three girls’ coffees and taste the sourly sweet blueberry topping on the cheesecake on Tanya’s plate. It was as if I was there in the same living room, sitting across the coach and sharing the moment with the three of them, yet they could not see me or feel my presence.

I can still remember this moment when I flipped the page to find out that the novel came to an end. I remember feeling as empty and torn as if I was saying my goodbyes to the three girls since I was going back to my world. I could feel my heart tightening at the bitter truth of coming back to my own reality; I wanted to live in that world and never leave, enjoying the mix of emotions that would end up with happiness thereafter.  It was that precise moment and that split of a second, when I felt like I lost a piece of myself to that novel. Even though I went back to real life again, I was sure that a small tiny part of me stayed with the three girls and enjoyed the morning coffees with them every day.

From that moment onwards, I felt desperate about losing myself to novels. I could not stop myself from reading more even though I hated losing parts of myself to them. It was an addiction that clawed my heart tightly; the pleasure wrestling the wrenching pain to win over. This battle got the best of me one day, so I grabbed a piece of paper and started scratching furiously to let off the steam building within me after finishing “Stolen” by Lesley Pearse. I could feel that the blood was boiling through my body as I felt another piece of me was “stolen” away. Suddenly, I found myself scribbling down how I felt, and so, I went on writing for more than an hour about how frustrated I was and how much I craved to live in every novel I used to read. I remember feeling relieved after I wrote all that down.

From that moment onwards, I started regaining every piece of myself that I lost before through writing about other worlds I believed existed. 

Writing was my means to find myself.

[soumaiahashad]

The Child in Me

The worst days of her life are those days she wakes up 5 minutes later than what she intends. Despite the fact that her lecture starts at 8:30 AM and it only takes her 15 minutes to arrive on campus, she sets her alarm at 7:00 AM every morning. It takes her at least 5 minutes to actually wake up and turn off her alarm, maybe a few more minutes wasted on her search for her slippers so that she can wash up before heading to college. It is not until 7:30 that she opens her wardrobe and stares at her clothes. Her mind is in turmoil, she always finds herself lost when it comes to choosing what to wear; should she wear the pink top and black scarf or maybe the black top and pink scarf? Then she realizes after looking in the mirror that both won’t work for her today. After about 7 minutes, she settles to wear the navy blue cardigan and the brown skirt alongside the flowery scarf that goes well with her complexion. Forcing the door open, her mother bursts into the room with panicky eyes and raises her eyebrows as she practically shouts the words:

“Soumaia! You’re still undressed?! It’s 8:10 already!”

Soumaia’s eyes widen as she tosses the scarf over her head and wraps it into a mess. She stumbles her way through the room searching for her shoes, watch, bag and accessories, as her mother watches her with her arms crossed.

“You will never change. You were 10 years old and it would take you more than an hour to get ready for school.”

As she drives her way to college, her mind travels somewhere beyond the streets she speeds through. 

It was in 2003 when a small version of herself was standing in front of a mirror with a brush in one hand and tiny little hairclips in the other hand. Her eyes shining as she arranged the hairclips in her favorite order, starting with the pink ones and ending with the green ones. Collecting her hair into her tiny hand, she brushed every strand of hair carefully to make sure that the hair-ends would be curled elegantly. Afterwards, she started dividing her hair into different strands, where every strand was fixed in its angle using its specific hair-clip according to color order. She would look at herself in the mirror from different angles and assess her work. Shaking her head in disapproval, she untied her hair-clips and brushed her hair again to try a different style; she tried on two braids but untied them, then one braid then untied it and then she tried leaving it loose but it was too messy in her eyes. And the cycle went on and on until it was interrupted by her mother bursting the door open and making Soumaia jump off her feet.

“Soumaia. The bus arrived downstairs! What the hell are you doing?”

Soumaia’s hair was a mess at that moment after all those trials. “Tie your hair in a ponytail”, her mum yelled as she dragged Soumaia’s backpack and tossed the lunchbox inside. Soumaia took a last glimpse at her messy hair in the mirror then groaned in frustration as she tied her hair back into a boring ponytail.

As she pulls over at the university’s parking lot, Soumaia smiles at the funny memory as she realizes that her childhood does not belong to her past, rather it shapes who she is now.

[soumaiahashad]

It was beautifully worded and painfully read; the things that were written, were those never said.

Lang Leav, “A Letter”, Lullabies (via q8i-sayood)

[soumaiahashad]

Unannounced Departure

I am so sorry for your loss.” Nabila whispered. “Al baqaa’ lellah, ya Tante”.

Nabila hugged her friend’s mother as she struggled to lock her tears in by keeping her eyes wide open. The woman’s body started shaking as the sobs escaped her mouth. Nabila’s body quivered at the woman’s convulsions, then tears betrayed her strong front and stained the woman’s black wrinkled scarf.

“I am so sorry.” This time Nabila was crying, her voice trembling at the end of every word. She tightened her grip on the woman’s waist with one hand and patted on her back with the other hand. After a few seconds, Nabila loosened her grip and the woman leaned back to look in Nabila’s eyes. Her eyes were swelled and red as Nabila watched the crystal beads trail down her cheeks till they merged into a stain on the scarf by her neck.

Nabila squeezed the woman’s trembling hands and assured her that Farah was in a better place than theirs. Giving room for the rest of the guests to offer their condolences to Farah’s mother, Nabila entered the bright hall that was filled with women and young girls wearing black. The hall’s walls were carved with Islamic verses from the Quran, and the dome-shaped ceiling was decorated with Arabesque art creating a fusion of golden brown and royal blue. People’s humming voices echoed in the hall with the sound of the Sheikh reciting the verses from the Quran in the background. Nabila sat down next to the door glancing every now and then at Farah’s mom as guests came and left.

“Poor little girl!” A woman in full makeup murmured to the other woman next to her. “Heard that she died in a car accident.”

“Aw! That is so sad!” The other woman flapped her hand in the air, her diamond ring flickering.

“Oh my God! Tohfa, your diamond ring is so fabulous!” They both giggled quietly and discussed the latest trends in the jewelry world.

Nabila fiddled with her tissue paper as Farah’s memories faded away those petty conversations. Death had never crossed Nabila’s mind; her biggest fear was to fail her IB exams, but losing a friend in a car accident had never occurred to her. She received the news of Farah’s accident last night and couldn’t sleep all night. For the first time in her life, she had experienced a sleepless night of intolerable pain and loud tears.

Nabila snapped back to reality when Yasmin, Farah’s college friend, called her name. She stood up and hugged her, and again her eyes resumed the crying.

“It’s going to be okay.” She whispered in Nabila’s shoulders. “She will be fine.”

Yasmin sat next to Nabila and rested her hands on her shoulders. Black looked odd on Yasmin, the girl who always wore colors and was never friends with black. They sat silent for a few minutes, listening to the Sheikh’s strong voice reading verses that talk about heaven’s luxury.

“When did you last see her?” Nabila’s voice was barely hearable.

“Yesterday at university.” Yasmin answered.

Nabila glanced at Yasmin in despair to hear more.

“I had to submit a project, so I didn’t spend a lot of time with her. I can’t believe she won’t be here anymore.” Yasmin clenched her fists.

The two girls went over to Farah’s mother. They offered her a bottle of water and a chair. They stood next to her, shaking people’s hands and receiving condolences for their friend’s death. Farah’s mom would tear up every time any of the condolences mentioned her daughter’s name.

“My only child. The light of my eye.” She would wail. “My beloved baby died.”

Yasmin left after an hour, but Nabila stayed with Farah’s mother until the end of the service. After making sure that nothing was left behind, Nabila helped Farah’s mom into the car with Farah’s dad. Nabila offered her condolences to him and asked him to drive home safely. She wasn’t very acquainted with Farah’s dad since he wasn’t always home when she came over.

The next morning, Nabila headed to Farah’s house to keep her promise to Farah’s mom that she would be helping with sorting Farah’s stuff. Nabila never wanted to do this, but she couldn’t leave Farah’s mom on her own. She rang the bell as soon as she arrived, and Nour, their maid, opened the door. She didn’t say a happy ahlan as she always did before, instead she stepped aside for Nabila to enter and lowered her gaze to the floor. The drapes were shut, preventing sunlight from entering the house. Nour went back to the kitchen while Nabila climbed up the stairs to Farah’s room. Nabila remembered the numerous times she had climbed those stairs with Farah; how Farah used to drum roll on her back whenever they were in a hurry to go somewhere; how Nabila used to sit in the middle of the stairs and give Farah a fright then fall to the ground laughing. The memories kept rushing through Nabila’s mind as she heavily lifted a leg after the other to reach the villa’s first floor.

Nabila could hear Farah’s parents talking in their room, opposite to Farah’s room across the corridor. She went over to Farah’s room and waited for them to finish their conversation. The door creaked open and Nabila slowly stepped inside. The dreary room suddenly became glistening with Farah’s presence. She was there on her bed, resting her long hair on the pillow with the laptop stand above her abdomen and her right earphone on. She smiled as soon as she saw Nabila and waved for her to come over and share the laptop screen with her. Just when Nabila was racing towards the bed, darkness prevailed and Farah disappeared.

She is gone. Accept that she is gone, forever.

She squatted to the floor and rested her back on the edge of Farah’s bed. Dim light penetrated the grey curtains reflecting on the white tiles. Nabila hugged her knees and cried. She caught her breath in between her soft sobs.

“Why did she do this?” a loud shriek came from Farah’s parents’ room. Nabila could recognize Farah’s mother’s voice.

“Why do you think she did it?” a hoarse voice answered. It was Farah’s father. Nabila was able to identify his raspy voice, though this time it was roughly different.

“Why do you think she did it?” Farah’s father repeated, but this time his words were intensified. “She did it because of you. Because of me.” His voice elevated to a higher pitch, “She did it because you didn’t give her the care she deserved.”

“Bullshit” Farah’s mother’s cry interrupted him, “You know very well that this isn’t right.”

“I gave you the responsibility.” He yelled, as the sound echoed through the floor, “You only had to take care of her. That was all you had to do. But you failed.” He paused. “You failed.” he repeated.

“I don’t know from where she got those pills.” Farah’s mom roared.

“Because you are so busy with those retarded friends of yours.” He replied. “You never knew because you never cared.”

“And where were you?” Her voice was hysterical. “She needed a father!”

“Don’t put the blame on me, woman.” He hissed. “I’ve put up with all your shit for the past years just for her sake.”

“Now she’s gone.” She snapped. “Leave then! Leave!”

“Our only daughter killed herself, and you are talking about leaving?” His voice grew louder. “She killed herself.” He was wailing.

Nabila gasped. Lightning struck her at those three words.

Impossible. No. Impossible. This can never be true. She died in a car accident.

Nabila stood up and stumbled her way to the light switch and turned on the lights. The room wasn’t messy like it always was. She headed to the commode next to the bed and opened the drawers and searched through them. Her heart was racing as she tried to quietly look for any sign of pills. Her hands stopped as soon as she saw an orange pill container. Her hands were shaking as she focused on reading what was written on the container.

Effexor (venlafaxine hydrochloride)

She flipped the container to read the description of the medicine. A structurally novel antidepressant for oral administration. Nabila’s eyes widened; her best friend was taking antidepressants and she didn’t know. The container crashed to the floor and the white oval-shaped pills spread on the floor. Farah’s parents rushed to the room as soon as they heard the sound and found Nabila soaked in her tears on the floor next to the drawer. Farah’s mom gasped and hurried over to Nabila while Farah’s father collected the pills and put them back in the container.

“When did you arrive?” Farah’s mom asked.

Nabila held tight to Farah’s mom and rested her cheek on her shoulders and wailed. Farah’s dad threw the container in the bin and took it outside the room.

“Farah didn’t kill herself.” Nabila whispered in between her sobs. “She couldn’t have done this.”

They both kept on crying in each other’s arms.

The following day, Nabila went over to Farah’s house. All night, she had been thinking about possible reasons that made Farah commit suicide. After she poured out all possible tears her eyes could produce, she felt the urge to understand her deceased friend; this was the least she could do towards her. When she arrived at the house, she heard Farah’s parents quarrelling again. Nabila heard a crashing sound as soon as she climbed up the stairs to the first floor and watched small turquoise pieces of crystal sprinkle across the marble in the corridor. Farah’s mom screamed then Farah’s dad stormed out of the room, ignored Nabila’s faint figure in the corridor and climbed down the stairs then slammed the door of the villa behind him. Nour hurried up the stairs to remove the pieces of glass on the floor as Farah’s mom’s sobs pierced the silence in the house.

Nabila hurried to Farah’s room and shut the door behind her. What Nabila was seeing and hearing didn’t make any sense; it tore apart the perfect picture that Farah had drawn in her mind. She could still remember how Farah used to boast about her parents and their love story. Farah would joke about how her father teased her mother and how it would make her crack up. It all shattered with the vase that fell to the floor into pieces.

She never told me that her parents weren’t going along, Nabila thought.

“I have another best friend.” Farah had once said when Nabila was over at her house. They were sitting on the bed; Farah was playing on her phone and Nabila was watching Friends.

“I know you only have me, loser.” Nabila replied. Farah shook her head then glanced at Nabila to show her a sly smile.

“Show her to me then.” Nabila challenged.

Farah left her cellphone on the bed then stood up and went over to her cupboard. She grabbed a small key and unlocked the top-right drawer.

“This.” She exclaimed as she waved a purple notebook in the air.

“This is your best friend?” Nabila smirked.

“Yes. My other best friend.” She nodded. “My diary.”

“Show me.” Nabila demanded.

“No!” Farah shook her head. “You can never see this unless I die.”

Farah locked the notebook back in the drawer and put the key underneath her books in the cupboard. Nabila had made fun of Farah’s other best friend then resumed her watching.

Nabila fought the urge to break down at those memories and opened the cupboard, hoping to find the key to Farah’s other best friend. She lifted the same pile of books and found the key. Nabila’s heart was bleeding; did Farah say this when she knew that she was dying soon? Did she really mean it when she said that I would only see her diary if she died. She unlocked the drawer and got the purple notebook out. A thousand thoughts battled in her mind; she knew that if she opened this notebook and read it, it would change a lot of things in her life. If she found out why Farah killed herself, she would never be able to remember Farah as a happy memory, rather a painful one.

Nabila carefully flipped the pages of the diary, wondering whether she should read her friend’s diaries. A small squared yellow paper fell to the ground. Nabila picked the paper and noticed Farah’s curvy handwriting.

Nabila, burn this if I die.

Do not show them to my parents.

-Farah-

 Nabila was struck to find her name written inside her diaries; Farah wanted her to see this. She put the notebook in her bag and locked the drawer then took the keys. She wanted to leave so she can absorb all of that. She passed by Farah’s mom in her room and told her that something came up so she would come later at night.

 Back in her room, Nabila began reading Farah’s diaries starting by the first page. It was written five years ago, when Nabila and Farah were in middle school. Her writing was shabby and full of grammatical mistakes. Nabila smiled at the memories that were described in Farah’s diaries. Farah kept referring to Nabila as her “bestest friend” in her diaries. Nabila kept on reading, flipping the pages to her friend’s memories, smiling and crying at the same time. In some of the pages, Farah expressed her sadness towards Nabila’s busyness and how they were becoming more apart. In other pages, she wrote about how Nabila was the only friend who understood her and made her life brighter. After 3 years’ worth of diary entries, Farah’s writing began to dig deeper into aspects of her life that weren’t known to Nabila. She talked about her parents fighting and the night she woke up to her mother’s sobbing. She wrote down her feelings of agony and despair towards her family, and how she felt that she was the only tie that kept a wrecked family together. At times, she wished for death so she could give her parents the freedom they wanted.

 Nabila felt guilt leaping out of the purple notebook and stabbing her heart. She was always next to her friend yet she never got to see the pain she was going through. She hid everything from Nabila so that she could never doubt that something was wrong.

 Nabila skipped two years and resumed her reading starting the past two months. There were a few pages that talked about happy times with Yasmine and Nabila, but the rest were depressing. She mentioned disappearing and dying many times in her writing. On March 18th, she decided to go to a psychiatrist that she found good reviews about online. She wrote how desperate she felt and how much she needed help. She said that she didn’t want to tell any of her friends so that they wouldn’t feel burdened by her low self-esteem, so she tried to avoid meeting any of them for some time.

Oh God! That is why she was avoiding me. Nabila thought as she wiped away the tears forming at the edges of her eyes.

The mood began to shift as Farah described how the treatment was positively affecting her. She went back to her normal life and took the prescribed dosage of antidepressant pills every day.

 Nabila flipped the page to find nothing. The last diary entry was two weeks ago. Nabila kept on flipping the pages, hoping to find something more, but there wasn’t. She grabbed her cellphone and dialed Yasmine’s number.

 “Hello.”

“Yasmine, its Nabila.” Nabila’s breathing was getting heavier.

“Nabila, Hey!” Yasmine’s voice was soft.

“I want to ask you a quick question if you have a minute.” Nabila said.

“Yeah, sure!”

“You said you saw Farah a day before she passed away, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“You take classes with her, don’t you?”

“Yes, I take three classes with her.” Yasmine seemed worried.

“This past week, was there anything weird about her attitude?”

Silence.

“Uhm..”

“Did she talk to you about anything?” Nabila asked. “We met before my finals, so I didn’t get to see her after that.”

“What’s wrong, Nabila?” Yasmine inquired.

“Please, just tell me.” Nabila pleaded. “I just want to make sure of something.”

“Okay okay!” She paused for a few seconds. “She seemed upset about something, but she didn’t want to talk about it. I thought it had to do with the projects and finals.”

“I see.” Nabila said. “Thank you Yasmine. I am so sorry to bother you. Will call you again later to explain everything.” Then she hung up.

 Nabila put the purple notebook back in her bag and wore her sneakers then went over to Farah’s house. Farah’s dad’s car was parked in the corner of the street; the engine was still on. Just when Nabila was about to pass by it, Farah’s father got out of the car and opened the backseat door. A little boy, who looked about 4 years old, jumped off the seat into Farah’s dad’s arms. A young woman, with golden brown hair and ocean blue eyes, got out of the car and put her hands on Farah’s father’s shoulders. He smiled at her then kissed the boy on his forehead.

 “Baba, promise me you will come and watch me in the school’s play!” The boy exclaimed as he held onto Farah’s dad’s shirt.

“I promise, son.” Farah’s dad said and then passed the boy to the woman next to him.

She waved at Farah’s dad as he walked towards the villa’s gate, then she put the little boy in the back seat and drove off.

Farah’s dad waved at them as they passed by him then entered the villa and closed the gate behind him.

 All of a sudden, Nabila felt the weather became so cold; she was freezing.

[soumaiahashad]

The Heart-Mind Battle

She scrolls down her homepage as fast as she can, escaping the chance to see what her heart wants her to see. Her mind tells her not to look for what makes her heart wrench, but her heart battles its way to grieve over the loss and agonize over its own helplessness. Despite the effort that her mind puts into shoving it all away, it comes haunting her in her dreams. The cries, the corpses, the wounds; she sees them all in her dreams. It's as if her heart takes over when she goes to sleep and leaves her mind helpless when she wakes up, with her pillows drenched in tears. This battle has been going on for the last couple of years; non-ending and will never end. 

Conquered by her fears, she switches off her laptop, grabs her Paulo Coelho novel and closes her room's door after her. She sits on her bed as she switches on the lamp next to her bed and resumes her reading. For some obvious reason, she loves reading Paulo Coelho's books lately. It makes her feel so surreal and light. It snatches her heart and mind away from their bitter reality and lifts her up somewhere between the clouds where she feels all the serenity her mind and heart need. She imagines herself as the heroine of  Paulo's books who goes through real-life ups and downs as she cries and smiles and experiences all possible mixes of emotions. But what makes her heart desire more and more of those books is the fact that those stories have definite happy endings. Unlike her own reality. 

She falls asleep every night while reading one of Paulo's books; this is the only way she can actually fall asleep. This is the only way her heart and mind can reach an agreement and leave her at peace with herself since they are living the reality of someone else and not of their own. She wants to put an end for the battle going on between her heart and mind; she wants to get rid of the piercing pain she feels whenever her heart wins over her mind and the shattering guilt she feels whenever her mind wins over her heart. Accordingly, every night she adds a brick to the wall she has been building for the past few months. The wall that isolates her from the heart-pain and stress. The wall that numbs her and makes her feel nothing. 

The wall she has been building has become so huge to the extent of forgetting what she has been trying to protect herself from. She now stands face-to-face with what used to make her heart bleed with agony and her mind burn, but she doesn't twitch or back away. 

She watches indifferently, not sure whether she has become stronger or gutless.

[soumaiahashad]

A 'Mary' Experience

Dear Diary,

                                                                                     September 4, 2011

Today was one of my most interesting days in my whole lifetime, and that isn’t an exaggeration. 

Today, I got exposed to another brand new part of the world that got me all amazed and excited. Words can never describe how I’m feeling right now; I had my jaw dropped open for the whole day after meeting Maryam, that Muslim girl in my sociology class. 

Generally speaking, Maryam is a very active student in class; she always engages in discussions and shares her opinions with the whole class. She never fails to amaze me with her philosophical ideas and perspectives. She always wears that veil or scarf around her head, and since I am already a student at the American University in CAIRO, I got used to seeing girls this way intending to hide their hair. I’ve never understood the reason behind that scarf; I never dared to ask, but I assumed it was something required in their religion (eventhough not all Muslim women wear that). 

Curiosity was killing me; what was the reason behind this hijab? What was so great about hiding your hair and whole body? Sitting through my sociology class, I couldn’t help but think about that matter while staring at Maryam’s pink scarf in wonder. As soon as class finished, I decided that I won’t hesitate again; I decided to gather up my courage and talk with Maryam. 

Diary, I swear to GOD that I never expected her reaction to be so. I never expected that she would be that friendly and welcoming; she accepted all my questions in a very pleasant manner alongside a wide smile spreading across her face. Even with her hair hidden somewhere below that scarf, she appeared to be so beautiful in my eyes. Afterwards, she asked whether I was free to talk for sometime or not; luckily, I had no classes. As we ordered tasty sandwiches from Subway, I was overly anticipating the moment when we start talking about that scarf. I was literally restless and excited to the extent that I forgot about lunch and went ahead to reserve two seats in the crowded food court. 

As soon as we sat down, I introduced myself and my intended major. She did the same ending her introduction by saying: “Christine, you don’t know how happy I am that you came and asked me about my Hijab.”

I smiled; how could she be that friendly? And they were calling Muslims terrorists, huh?

After she described her feelings while wearing that scarf and how she feels obliged to her God to wear it, I started losing my focus through the conversation. I became more curious about her religion than about the scarf; I felt the urge to ask her about her God and obligations. I started deviating from the point I intended to ask about unconsciously.  Who was her God? Does she pray? Who was her leader or prophet? I only knew about Christianity and Jesus Christ but never understood Islam and Muslims. 

She started explaining that she believes in only one God, Allah, as he’s the only creator while we, Christians, believe in One God, who exists in three distinct persons (The Trinity): Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Moreover, she stated that she prays 5 times a day to God at certain times in certain manners while our prayers in Christianity don’t require certain times of the day in a specific manner. 

As I listened to her attentively, I kept on comparing my religion to hers, realizing that there are many similarities. For example, diary, I found out that they actually believe in Jesus Christ as one of their prophets, but their main leader who came after Jesus and completed God’s message was Muhammad. Honestly at the beginning, I tried to falsify that fact implying that if she believes in Jesus, she should be Christian. Nevertheless, she courageously justified her belief using evidence from her Islamic book, the Koran, saying:

“And [mention] when Jesus, the son of Mary, said, "O children of Israel, indeed I am the messenger of Allah to you confirming what came before me of the Torah and bringing good tidings of a messenger to come after me, whose name is Ahmad”

I was astonished; in their book, Jesus was actually mentioned? As I was trying to make sure that I got that right, I decided to ask more questions. I started inquiring the fact that they believe in Jesus and Virgin Mary; I still couldn’t believe that they believed in Jesus as a prophet from God. Maryam, keeping her smile shining on, clarified the fact that her name is the same as that of Virgin Mary’s, and that got me all startled (Mary is the English virgin of Maryam). After that, she kept on expressing her love to Virgin Mary in an extraordinarily manner; how she was chosen by God to be the best of women, how she held the full responsibility of Jesus all by herself after the help of God, and how she managed to be patient despite all the accusations and bullying she faced; she even grounded her perspective by a verse from the Koran:

“And [mention] when the angels said, "O Mary, indeed Allah has chosen you and purified you and chosen you above the women of the worlds.”

For a moment there, I saw no one but Maryam and heard nothing but her voice; I was somewhere else other than that food court we were sitting in; I felt that she was someone like me who respects Virgin Mary and Jesus. I felt that we had so many things, feelings and dreams in common even if we had different religions. I, then, shared my thoughts with her about the afterlife to find that she also believes in heavens and hell. We kept on talking and talking for hours without realizing how slippery our conversation became, but one thing I concluded from it is how much our beliefs were alike. 

I can keep on writing on and on about how astonished and surprised I am, but I have college tomorrow, and I need to get some sleep. It just happens a day in a million days when one experiences such an incredible incident;  I can’t be less grateful for going through such an encounter,

can I? 

                                                                                              Love, 

[soumaiahashad]

Introducing SuperMuslims Magazine!!!

[soumaiahashad]

Life's Probability Distributions

Since I am an actuarial science major, I am a math freak (somehow) in a way or another. Even though to some people math might sound so boring and unimportant, it has actually taught me a lot of things that I couldn't learn from basic living or experiences. 

Probability is the most applicable and practical material that I learn in my major; everything in our lives depends upon probabilities. The word "possibility" is a probability terminology. Throughout our lives, we always hear the sentence: "nothing is impossible" or "impossible is nothing", but have you ever thought of the meaning of such sentences? 

Impossible means a zero probability of occurrence. As a matter of fact, there are a few things that can be impossible in life, like living eternally, and there are a few things that are certain with a probability occurrence of 1, like death. On the other bright side, there are numerous things and events that count as possible within the domain from 0 to 1. 

Some events are seen as miracles and are actually labelled as Guinness records, whereas those events are pretty achievable since they depend on probabilities. This person who can insert 2,009 needles onto his head is not an exception; we all have different probabilities of enduring such pain; it's just a matter of each person's endurance probability. We can all break records through searching for the trait or action where our probability of achievement is high; some people might have a high probability of enduring hot objects, while others have high probabilities of enduring freezing conditions. It is a matter of probabilities.

So yes, you can create your own Guinness record; you can go beyond all borders and spread your wings. A few years ago, travelling by plane was just a fairy tale, but now it has become reality.

Life is composed of a bunch of probability distributions; each one of us has his own tables of distributions, some might be discrete and some might be continuous distributions. Sometimes, you form your own table of distribution, where you chase your dreams and goals, whereas sometimes you're gifted by a unique table of distribution. All you have to know is one thing: you can make anything possible. 

But do not try to live eternally; death is certain.

Allah has created us, each person different from another. He gave you your own table of distributions with empty slots; you have the pen, now you fill the slots.

Draw your distribution curve the way you like it. Just make sure to smile while you're doing so.

[soumaiahashad]

When they plant brutality in innocence. #NoComment

Israeli children sign missiles with the message:

Dear Lebanese/Palestinian/Arab/Muslim/Christians - Kids,

Die with love.

Yours, 

Israeli Kids

I have no words for how disturbing this is to me.

[soumaiahashad]

"‎"I swear, I’ve never experienced such a feeling in my whole life; I felt that all obstacles between Allah and I have disappeared. I could almost sense Allah very next to me, talking to me through those verses. I felt that I was in some other world where everything disappeared except Allah and this Quran I was holding."

I would die for the sake of experiencing such a feeling. I would do anything, ANYTHING, I swear, if I would be granted this feeling in return.

They told me that the Quran can grant me so. They said that Dua’a can help me reach it. And so I tried.

Everyday, I would do as they said. I would...

[soumaiahashad]

I’m going back to Tahrir

The lion in this image is supposedly one of four lion statues on the entrance of Qasr El-Nil bridge, two on each side. As you can see, the lion in attacking, which means exactly what it looks like, it’s tired of sitting there doing nothing.

[soumaiahashad]

Reaching Out For Somalia

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Human Being,

Have you ever imagined a day without a drop of water? Have you ever fought with your siblings over a cup of clean water? Have you ever seen a father killing his own son out of kinship and sympathy? If the answer is no, then you haven't heard of Somalia till now. Somalia lies somewhere in Africa where drought got the best of its population forcing them to leave their homes and head towards the capital, Mogadishu , where they thought water would be enough for everybody. However, as time passed by, water became limited and drought dug its way through Mogadishu . 

During the few last months, after the crisis in Somalia became clear to the world, many donations were collected with the intention of saving Somalia and feeding its people. Nevertheless, what the world was able to achieve was so little according to the disaster; instead of a person dying every 100 seconds, the world's donations was able to change the statistics where a person dies every four minutes. 

Sustainability is the key. Short-termed supplies of food and water is not enough to help Somalia recover. Somalia needs to stand on its feet again.

"AUCians for Somalia" is our campaign's title. 

Saving Somalia is our vision. 

Digging a well in Somalia is our aim.

Persistence is our method. 

Unity is our guide. 

As Help Club members, we joined hands with many clubs in the AUC such as Alashanek Ya Balady (AYB), SIFE, Glow, Student Union (SU) and Beyond Boarders for the cause.

Saving 10,000 Somalis can be attained through building one well. One well costs 720,000 LE; such a daring challenge, right?

Well, the AUC community is ready to challenge the whole world in just one month. Collecting 720,000 LE is such a "far-fetched" goal, but we're up to it.

Join "AUCians for Somalia" to leave your fingerprint in the world. Be caring and save humanity. A whole nation is depending on your one and only "pound".

To the whole world, it's just one child, but to humanity, it is FAMINE. 

Sincerely,

A Caring Human Being

*To donate and be part of making history kindly contact: 01221230369 - 01005797811 or contact me on my twitter account: http://twitter.com/#!/SoumaiaHashad or visit our Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=204472132959184

[soumaiahashad]

princessnatch:

She is the hot breath you breathe when you’re in need, Pulsating gasps whispering her name, Shaking for the warmth of her embrace, You’re unworthy of even the slightest, least kindest, of her grace, She has taught you which never you portray.

Repeated blows taken for your indecency, Yet her...

[soumaiahashad]

RIP, Troy Davis. madeinnablus:

daisea:

America.

Powerful.