Facebook is the chronicle of our collective heartbreak

Isn't funny how Facebook has become the chronicle of our collective existence. Here's a very interesting data visualization from infographic wizard David McCandless. It depicts the most common times a year that people break up — via Facebook status updates.

The two weeks before Christmas are the worst, they are the "breakup rush hour". Notice the sudden drop on Christmas day.

 

(Source: Mashable)

Jimmy Choo's cruise collection is amazing this year, but this shoe in specific will break many a little heart like mine. It's called "Magnum" and at £695 it might well be lethal for your finances.

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How brilliant is this artwork? Ghada Amer's Snow White

Here's another piece of art I fell in love with at the Residua exhibition (Al Maraya Gallery Sharjah http://www.artinthecity.com/en/gallery.php?id=208).

New York based Egyptian artist Ghada Amer is known for her intricate acrylic hand embroidered artwork, which employs threads and needles to create artwork that tackles issues of gender and sexuality. Amer’s dynamic body of work encompasses painting, sculpture and multimedia, exploring aspects of feminine identity, sexuality, and the representation of women in Art History and mass media.

Born in Cairo in 1963, Amer emigrated to the United States aged 11 and uses embroidery-an activity often associated with women- as a subversive tool to comment on contemporary women’s issues. Her technique consists of stitching and knotting loose threads on the face of the canvas and then using transparent gel and glue to paste them to the surface, thus creating an appearance likened to paint drips. Due to the complexity of this process, which often demands three months to complete, Amer’s portfolio is limited.

Ghada Amer studied at Ecole des Beaux Arts in Nice, the School of The Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and the Institut des Hautes Etudes en Arts Plastiques in Paris. Her art has been exhibited around the world.

A must see: Lebanese Artist's social examinations + other very interesting works at Residua Exhibition (Sharjah)

I got to visit the Residua exhibition during my visit to the Sharjah International Book Fair this week. I don't pretend to understand art, but I visit exhibitions in London as often as I can, and this one felt as good if not better. The painting I'm showing here was one of those that hit me the most, because I felt I could really understand what the artist is trying to say.

Taghreed Darghouth examines transformations in culture and lifestyle in her native Lebanon through a series of meticulous paintings. One widespread obsession amongst Lebanese youth is cosmetic surgery, which Darghouth represents in a portrait series “Mirror, Mirror”, including a number of plastic surgery patients healing after surgery. Darghouth has also examined changes in relationships between Lebanese mothers and their children with the influx of hired domestic helpers from Ethiopia, the Philippines and Srilanka. In the “Mirror, Mirror” series, Darghouth, born in 1979, paints men and women who are swollen and bandaged after taking drastic steps to improve their beauty to make it conform more closely to a western ideal. The patients appear injured & abused when, in reality, their wounds are voluntary. The artist focuses specifically on the desire of youth to reduce the arch of their Semitic noses. The commonplace acceptance of plastic surgery has taken a role in re-shaping contemporary Lebanese culture. By focusing on the healing stage, Darghouth highlights the trauma involved in physically slicing away past cultural connections for new ones that are perceived as favorable. Much like “designer labels” donning a bandage on one’s nose has become a sign of wealth and fashion.

Seriously, if you're in Dubai, don't let the traffic scare you away (go before or after rush hour). This exhibition is really worth it. Here's more info about it and about Barjeel Art Foundation which is hosting it. http://www.barjeelartfoundation.com/Barjeel_Art_Foundation/home.html

Arab Publishing, the reality?

The first session I attended today at the Sharjah International Book Fair was the one titled “Manufacturing of Arabian Publishing, the reality and ambition”. Having read the (depressing) statistics about the status of publishing in the region, I was prepared for what I was about to hear. Mr. Fathi Al Biss, a former publisher and Vice President of the Association of Arab Publisher talked passionately and from experience about the challenges that have plagued the book industry in the Arab world for decades.

According to various pieces of research, the average Arab reads for less than 6 minutes a year and whereas countries such as the UK publish 1 book for every 500 people, in the Arab world the ratio is as low as 1 book for 12000 people.

The challenges are many, but all, according to Mr. Al Biss are caused by the same factor: the lack of government support which showcases itself through censorship, absence of budgets, difficulties in distribution, overall disinterest in promoting culture etc.

I agree: apart from a few enlightened programs in the Gulf and especially the UAE, our governments have never implemented any significant cultural programs. Ministers are happy to have their photo taken cutting ribbons at book fairs, but that’s about all the support we can expect.

Therefore, why don’t we be realistic? In our region governments are often a roadblock, rarely a facilitator. The private sector has to fend for itself.

In many ways it has. If I look at the growing number of book retailers, I cannot but wonder if the figures used above aren’t too narrow. I mean the likes of Antoine Library, Magroudi’s, Virgin or Borders cannot possibly have been making losses all these years and it’s probably because they haven’t relied on Arab publishing. Walk into any of these bookstores today and you’ll most likely be presented with English or French best sellers rather than local reads. Somewhere, somehow people ARE reading, but we’re just not reading Arabic books, nor books by Arabs that are published in the Middle East.

This then begs the question: are regional publishers producing the right content, are they investing enough in packaging and marketing or are they out of touch with their audience? I cannot claim to have answers to those questions, all I can say is that as a reader, I often find myself at a loss for regional content and end up digging into the international best sellers pile.

Excellent review of the anthology "Beirut 39"

I recently reviewed the anthology "Beirut 39" on this blog. Today I came across an excellent review of it by the Jordan Times. Check it out here.

Enjoy, and do let me know what you think if you've read Beirut 39.

Tous ces visages

Tous  ces visages

Qui passent et repassent
Et dont l’image bien vite s’efface

Tous ces moments
Qu’on a cru posséder
Et qui pourtant finissent par nous échapper

Tous ces souvenirs
Que l’on pensait chérir
Pour plus tard découvrir
Qu’ils ont eu tôt de s’enfuir
Tous ces visages
Qui rient, sourient et pleurent
Puis avec l’âge nous sortent du cœur

Toutes ces voix
Que l’on a écoutées
Comme si l’on croit
Que c’est pour l’éternité
Toutes ces années
Qui ce sont écoulées
Sans cage pour les garder
Sans bride pour les attacher

Seul ce temps
Maitre de l’univers
Agent de Satan
Méchant et pervers

Forgive a girl for lusting after worldly things but this Chanel iPad case got my ♥ racing.

Beirut 39, a reader's thoughts.

I was excited when Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation announced the release of their first publications. The one to catch my eye (and quite a few media reviews) was “Beirut 39” a collection of short stories from around the Arab World. This is the work of the 39 Arab writers aged 39 or less who were chosen from more than 480 entrants by the Beirut39 panel of judges last October. The panel was chaired by Egyptian critic Gaber Asfour, Omani poet Saif al-Rahbi,  Lebanese poet and critic Abdo Wazen, and Lebanese novelist Alawiya Sobh.

The exciting part for me was that I finally get to read content “from” my region and not just “about” it. Like many Lebanese who were educated abroad or in foreign language schools, I’ve mainly been consuming French and English literature my entire life, so I miss having content from my own culture.

Although I haven’t read the full collection yet, thought I’d share my initial thoughts:
- I loved the intro by Hanan Al Shaykh, one of my favorite writers. As she says these stories “have flung open the doors on Arab culture, inviting the reader to transcend cultural boundaries and land in a region known as the ‘Arab World"
- The short stories are just that, short and sweet, well written, well translated and insightful.
As I said I haven’t read all of them yet, but a few familiar themes have come up already: violence/war and terrorism, sexual repression, female repression.
- Yet, what I’m missing is the light hearted aspect of our life: the joking, socializing, togetherness that make up our society and which I think we fail to communicate in our literature. It seems every time I read anything from or about the Arab world, it centers on how dysfunctional and war ravaged we are, or how religion is a source of repression. I want to read something FUN!

Click here to read a review of Beirut 39 by the Guardian.
Click here if you want to know more about Bloomsbury Qatar Foundation. 

Trophy Wife (Short Story)

What the ...! He just walked into me, He almost dislocated my shoulder.

He says he didn’t see me but I’m kind of hard to miss, standing in front of the dresser, putting on my make-up. And I’m wearing my little red dress. I can think of several ways to describe this dress and invisible isn’t one of them. “Tight” maybe, “revealing” probably, “unsuitable for a married woman” for sure, but definitely not “invisible”.

He’d just come out of the shower. Maybe he was worried about all the hair he lost in there, the bathtub must be full of it as usual. It’s disgusting. Thank God I declared myself a career woman early on and never had to do the domestic wifey bullshit. I’ll ask Ranjani to scrub it again. The poor woman has had to clean several times today; I can’t stand the thought of using the bathroom after him.

Anyway, I won’t bother thinking about it, my shoulder isn’t really hurting and we have a party to go to. Four hundred of Samir’s closest friends, an exclusive guest list and tight security at the gate of his mansion in the mountains; this is going to be fun. I’m sure Samir will ask the DJ to play my favourite hip-hop, he always does. They know how to get me going, they like to get all their guests going because that’s the way to ensure the who’s who of society talks about nothing but their party for the rest of the week. Of course we could have all gone to a night club instead of clamouring to be on Samir’s guest list, but the clubs are full of tourists and prostitutes.

So now he’s almost running to the car. Well, he’ll have to wait, there’s no way in hell I’m walking any faster than this. It’s at least thirty-five degrees and I don’t want to break out in sweat, not to mention my heels will crack.

I just hope he doesn’t take off without me. Maybe he won’t even notice that I’m not in the car yet. Funny we’ve ended up like this. I remember the day he said I was the perfect girl for his convertible. I was wearing oversized sun glasses and let my hair fly in the wind. We had our first kiss that day. I often think that’s why he married me: I made the ideal accessory for his Benz. He’s got a sedan now; maybe that explains it.

Some thoughts on the latest Paolo Coelho

You know there’s something wrong in the world when someone like me, an aspiring writer, gets to comment of the greats of our time such as Paolo Coelho. But hey, long live the internet for giving everyone a voice :).

In the preface of “The Winner Stands Alone” Coelho explains that this book reflects his observations on today’s world. From the first minute, the reader can tell that these must be built on Coelho’s interaction with the uber rich and mega famous or the “Superclass” as he calls them throughout the book. Set in Cannes during the film festival, what could have been a predictable cast of characters: the aspiring actress, rising model, international fashion designer, high powered film executive, is spiced up by interesting back stories. The model is a lesbian Rwandan refugee, the fashion designer a Bedouin from the Arabian desert whose sheikh set him up for success to become his cultural ambassador to the world, etc. The main plot is driven by Igor, a Russian billionaire with a shady past who’s trying to get his ex-wife back by murdering people or “destroying” worlds as he puts it.

I liked structure of the book where the stories run in parallel within 24 hours. Yet, with so many characters and a long back story for each, my main take on the book is that the sudden drop in pace: e.g. we go from a murder scene to a long backstory about a police officer’s life can make the book a little jarring. Like any other reader, I love the suspense, but the sudden slowdowns eventually got to me and made me put the book down much more often than I should have.

Initially, I loved the observations about the fickleness of our world and the darkness of the superclass but these were reiterated so many times that they became redundant. Also, we never really know why Igor thinks that killing people would make his wife get back to him. It would have been great to get a deeper glimpse into his psyche to make the plot about more than a class-A murderer who succeeds perfectly with every hit.

Overall, I thought the book missed the insight and depth of previous Coelho works. I hope the next one won't let his fans down.

My laywoman's review of "The Locust and The Bird, My Mother's Story" by Hanan Al Shaykh

There can’t a bigger statement of daughterly love and forgiveness than penning down the tale of the mother who abandoned you as a child to run off with her lover. Yet that’s exactly what Hanan Al Shaykh did in this book, writing her mother’s true story in the first narrative, a translucent, fearless and unrepentant voice. This is the story of a woman born to poverty in the early 20th century south Lebanon, abandoned by her father and given off by her own mother as a child bride to her dead sister’s husband.

But this girl (Camila) is no loser and the book tells the story of her triumphant spirit. At a time where girls are expected to be grateful for the food and shelter their family provided them, Camila tears off her wedding dress and daubs her face with soot to show her resentment against her forced marriage. She sneaks to the cinema where films give her much needed escapism and help her overcome her illiteracy by teaching her about romance and passion. The love of her life, the much better educated Mohammed, serenades her during their illicit encounters in the orchards of Aley and even at his family’s home only a few blocks from the house she shares with her husband, kids, mother, siblings and nephews.

Eventually, Camila leaves her two daughters and husband to marry Mohammed, and has more children with him. His career goes well as an internal security officer, but like many great love stories this one is destined for a tragic end: Mohammed dies in a car accident. But Camila doesn’t give up. She travels the world visiting her children in Kuwait and the US and turns her living room in Beirut into a social salon, a “psychiatrist’s couch” as Hanan Al Shaykh puts it.

I cried my eyes out at the end, when Camila’s sad yet inspiring life comes to an end. Not only was her particular story touching, but it also told of the Lebanon that my grandparents talk about. Their way of life, their difficulties and the struggle of so many women who came before us and to whom we owe so much. A beautiful, highly recommended read.

Click here for the Guardian’s review of this book.

SATC and the Arab/Moslem woman

Another day and another opinion piece on the film Sex And The City2. By now, we’ve read everything from Andrew O’ Hagan’s  “this is the most stupid thing I’ve seen all year” in London’s Evening Standard to US commentators’ “fashion fascism” reviews and my latest read: an opinion piece by Wajahat Ali, a Muslim American writer, branding the movie “imperialistic” and an insult to Muslim women.

All of these reviews make valid points that echo many people’s thoughts, but at the same time, isn’t this a little too easy? ( and I’m talking here in specific about Wajahat’s opinion). Jumping to call this movie an insult to Muslim women and putting the world “imperialist” against it because it’s American is by itself a bigger cliché than anything in that movie.

As a Lebanese Muslim woman who has spent more than 13 years in the UAE and Kuwait (and loved every minute of it); I did feel the bite of the SATC ladies’ criticism of my culture, but I cannot say that it’s unfounded. Sure, not all of us are silenced or hidden behind veils but many are, and we need to accept that other cultures will have an opinion just like we have an opinion on their way of life.

Yes, SATC2 producers could have done their homework better: they used wrong colloquial as UAE dialect (as well as Hindi and Punjabi as Wajahat pointed out), missed important wardrobe details etc, but to me taking Carrie and Co - the symbol of glamorous strong western women- to the UAE and having them compare themselves to Moslem/Arab women is by itself a good thing: a debate opener and the fact that we (Arab/Moslem) women, and definitely the UAE ARE on the international map and here to stay. If we have to take a bit of criticism as we carve a bigger niche for ourselves in the global consciousness, so be it. If we’re smart, we can use this visibility as a platform to tell people more about ourselves and break down the fear that extremists on both sides have built.

A big thing for me were Carrie’s remarks about the woman in the “modern” Abaya + her VO when the women in the souk take off their clothes and “hundreds of years of tradition”  to reveal “this season’s Louis Vuitton” collection. I see why this sentence launched a thousand “fashion fascism” comments, but the positive undertone is right there: beyond the shallow layers, we have a lot more in common than meets the eye.

And let’s not forget: this is only a movie, a comedy and those who’ve ever watched the series or the first film know that the franchise can be accused of stigmatizing everyone, especially manhanites.

Raoui, I really miss you today. Googled you and found the “in Memoriam” note on your university’s

web site. You’re gone and it still feels so unreal. I half expect you to call from heaven like that random

phone call you gave me while you were stranded in the Guangdong  Province during the SARS

epidemic.

I figured I’d put this thought up on this page. Maybe what we post in cyberspace can make

its way to the sky.

They All Betray

Little girl, your charming prince has betrayed you, but little girl don't cry. You gave him your love and confidence, he threw them away and went his own way. He broke your youth with his lie, but little girl don't cry, they all betray they all lie.
He destroyed what you thought you had built, little girl he shattered your dream. But don't forget, things are not what they seem, there is always tomorrow, always place for love not for sorrow

“Here’s to Lebanon. And to kind strangers in Miami.”

      Elyssar took a turn and found herself on Ocean Drive, it was a moderately hot day, and the activity had started. Teenagers crossed the road in their shorts, carrying their beach gear. Many of them spoke with an American accent, but more conversed in fast-paced Spanish.  Under different circumstances, she would have loved to join in the fun and spend the day on the golden stretches of sand. At least the atmosphere here wasn’t as pretentious as the one around the Delano’s pool.
      She decided to stop in one of the little shacks serving alcohol along the road.  The place consisted of a bar and a few stools. It was empty, except for the bartender and a lone customer at the far end of the bar.
      She perched herself on a stool at the other end.
      “Can I have a glass of rosé, please?”
      She watched the barman’s biceps bulge back and forth as he fetched a glass, than a bottle, poured her drink and placed the glass in front of her. The “only the beautiful work here” rule seemed to apply all over South Beach, not just at The Delano.
      She took a sip then pressed her forehead against the chilled glass.
      “You’re gorgeous.”
      She turned around and saw the other patron, an older man, looking at her from his seat on the opposite side of the bar. His paternal smile made his words acceptable.
      He had the typical look of a Floridian retiree with his t-shirt, shorts, slippers, silver hair, wrinkled sun kissed complexion and perfectly aligned snow-white teeth. He made her realize how much she missed her father. 
      She smiled, “thank you.”
      He raised his bottle of beer and she reciprocated with her glass.  He pointed to the stool next to him, inviting her to sit down.
      “Rough day?” He asked as she climbed on the seat near his.
      She nodded.
      “Whatever it is, you shouldn’t waste this beautiful sunshine thinking about it.”
      “You’re right. I’m on the world famous Ocean Drive, I should be having a great time.”
      “You look Brazilian but you sound French.” He said.
      She smiled “Not really.”
      “Italian?”
      She shook her head again.
      “Spanish?”
      “Lebanese.”
      He looked at her with renewed interest but didn’t comment. They drank in silence for a while then he asked:
      “Man trouble today?”
      “What else could it be?”
      He thumped his bottle against hers.
      “Here’s to Lebanon.”
      “Here’s to Lebanon.” She repeated “And to kind strangers in Miami.”

It! refugee (excerpt from chapter 6)

That afternoon in New York, Elyssar felt special as she walked up to the entrance of the Cole Haan shop on Fifth Avenue and introduced herself to one of the women standing by the door. The group of onlookers gathered outside the velvet rope granted her a quick scan then turned their eyes away in anticipation of the next arrival. They were here to spot celebrities and she sure didn’t look like one.
The black clad girl checked her list and flashed a well aligned smile.
“Please come in, Ms. Awwad,” she said, unhooking the velvet rope as if it were the gate to heaven.
Elyssar returned the smile and stepped into the store. She congratulated herself on finally getting out of her hotel. She’d given herself two full day to cry and watch the news in her room but as everyone in Lebanon had reassured her of their safety, she’d decided to do the best with her stay in New York and called Bespoke, her personal concierge service, asking for a list of things to do in New York.
This event was the first one on the calendar and couldn’t have been more serendipitous: it featured a discussion with Cynthia Nixon, the actress who played Miranda on Sex And The City. Elyssar had begged and pleaded with Bespoke to get her name on the list. They obliged, but not without highlighting how difficult a task they’d been able to complete, since her request came in at the last minute.
Once inside, she found herself in the midst of the ultimate New York crowd as she’d imagined it: well groomed women in designer clothes that highlighted their emaciated bodies; and handsome gay men in tight shirts chatting away while a herd of photographers recorded every detail. The shop had been modified to fit a small stage in the back, with three bar stools ready to seat the speakers.
She glanced at herself in a mirror, making a quick comparison with those around her. There was no matching the women’s super thin frame, shiny hair and toned legs; but her Chloe top-skirt combination and brown Jimmy Choo sandals screamed “on trend” and looked presentable. Thank God she’d had the sense to pack decent clothes; otherwise she would have never had the guts to go out in New York.
It took her a few seconds to realize that the person standing next to her was none other than Cynthia Nixon herself. She was shorter and slimmer than she appeared on TV and had changed her hair colour to blond, from the famous “Irish” redhead look she sported in the series.
Elyssar wanted to act blasé, but she was too star-struck to hide it. She stared without saying a word.
Nixon smiled.
“I like your bag,” she said, looking prettier than her character did on the TV show.
Elyssar looked down at her purse. A twenty-five dollar beaded number she’d bought at a charity event in Dhour.
“It’s from Lebanon,” she replied, “handmade by the women in my village.”
“It’s beautiful.”

Excerpt from chapter 5 of The It! Refugee

Maya found the perfect location to top up her tan, lying away from prying eyes at the far end of the garden. She needed to keep a healthy complexion for the wedding.
Her fiancé, Ziad, called twenty-five minutes into the session.
He started with the mandatory “So what’s the situation like today?”
“Rubbish. The helicopters are flying extremely low, I worry they’re going to trim off the roofs of our houses.”
“They’re probably on reconnaissance to deter fighters from moving to the mountains,” Ziad said. “So what distractions have you and your cousins found today?”
“I’m by myself tanning in the garden. We were together earlier and then each went home for lunch. They must be napping or reading.”
“Do you mean you’re in your bikini?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You know how conservative Dhour is. You shouldn’t do this.”
“I’m at the far end of the garden. No one ever comes here.”
“You just said the jets are flying low.”
Maya smiled.
“You’re talking as if they can see me.”
“Yes, they can see you. I hate the thought of these soldiers peering over you in your bikini.”
Maya burst out laughing.
“Baby, you’re so sweet. I hope I’m a bombshell in your eyes, but believe me their radar won’t pick me up.”
“I mean it. They take all kinds of photos during surveillance missions. You’d be surprised at how clear they can be.”
Maya wasn’t sure whether he was serious or not, but she didn’t like being told not to tan in her own garden.
“My bikini’s white, so they’ll know I come in peace,” she mocked.

There are days where I obsess with my mother's life. Today is one of them. It kills me that her best years were lost to the civil war. Hope we've been good children and made up for it. May God give you many more happy years, Mahmah.

Out Of My Shoes (Short story, full text)

What the ...! He just walked into me, the nitwit almost dislocated my shoulder.

He says he didn’t see me but I’m kind of hard to miss, standing in front of the dresser, putting on my make-up. And I’m wearing my little red dress. I can think of several ways to describe this dress and invisible isn’t one of them. “Tight” maybe, “revealing” probably, “unsuitable for a married woman” for sure, but definitely not “invisible”.

He’d just come out of the shower. Maybe he was worried about all the hair he lost in there, the bathtub must be full of it as usual. It’s disgusting. Thank God I declared myself a career woman early on and never had to do the domestic wifey bullshit. I’ll ask Ranjani to scrub it again. The poor woman has had to clean several times today; I can’t stand the thought of using the bathroom after him.

Anyway, I won’t bother thinking about it, my shoulder isn’t really hurting and we have a party to go to. Four hundred of Samir’s closest friends, an exclusive guest list and tight security at the gate of his mansion in the mountains; this is going to be fun. I’m sure Samir will ask the DJ to play my favourite hip-hop, he always does. They know how to get me going, they like to get all their guests going because that’s the way to ensure the who’s who of society talks about nothing but their party for the rest of the week. Of course we could have all gone to a night club instead of clamouring to be on Samir’s guest list, but the clubs are full of tourists and prostitutes.

So now he’s almost running to the car. Well, he’ll have to wait, there’s no way in hell I’m walking any faster than this. It’s at least thirty-five degrees and I don’t want to break out in sweat, not to mention my heels will crack.

I just hope he doesn’t take off without me. Maybe he won’t even notice that I’m not in the car yet. Funny we’ve ended up like this. I remember the day he said I was the perfect girl for his convertible. I was wearing oversized sun glasses and let my hair fly in the wind. We had our first kiss that day. I often think that’s why he married me: I made the ideal accessory for his Benz. He’s got a sedan now; maybe that explains it.