The Writer Who Stopped Writing

I was at the Abu Dhabi Film Festival just a couple of hours ago watching the award-winning film The Rooftops. The film is set in Algiers where the post-colonial shanty houses of the city’s slums line the expansive blue coast of the Mediterranean. The film follows the stories of five groups of characters living on different rooftops in the city’s main districts. Right from the start, the film captivated my attention. The plot seemed interesting, the cinematography of Algiers’ cityscape breathtaking, and the setting of the film a particular interest of mine.  20 minutes through the film, the ‘Asr call to pray sounded majestically over the Algiers’ rooftops on the silver screen. It was at that point that I was struck with a pang of guilt. I had missed praying the ‘Asr prayer on time. Instinctively, I stood up less than quarter way through the film, picked up my belongings, and exited the cinema.

On my way back to the hotel, as I walked across the Abu Dhabi corniche, I dwelt upon how I had been failing to attend to certain duties. It was at that point that the Isha call to prayer had sung beautifully over the Arabian Gulf that reflected the skyscrapers towering above me. Missing prayers at their appointed times seemed to symbolize many other things that I have been missing in life. My prayers connect me to God. I have come to realize that my writing is what connects me to my soul, and I haven’t been writing as regularly as I would like to.

Last week, I received news that a novel I wrote two years ago would finally be published. Right before I started my career as a consultant, I had written a novel about my love for Egypt. After writing it, I stopped writing. Why? Well, I must admit that when I have to work over 16 hours a day it is hard to experience life, reflect, and write. However, I have reached a point where I feel that my soul has been drained because I have neglected it.  

I find myself returning to this blog to write. There is so much to write about and so little time. However, I have decided that I will start reclaiming my life by writing at least one entry every week. This blog has long served as my training ground as a writer. To it I return with the hope that it will revive a passion that once brought me so much joy. 

The Way of the Romantic

"I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's; I will not reason or compare: my business is to create."-William Blake

Reality has made me forget what it means to be a Romantic. The mundane routine of life can take its toll, making one forget his purpose in thie world. Recently, I stumbled upon an exhibition at the Tate Britain that reminded me of why I write, blog, and create. It reminded me that the Romantic is a dreamer, an idealist, a believer. The exhibition, titled the Romantic Movement, made me quite nostalgic of my Virginian days, when I was loner searching for the truth. I recall going to a used bookshop one day and buying 100 books of ecletic genres. Goethe's, Decartes', and Wordsworth's works became my new companions. Without knowing it, I was in a quest to become a Romantic.

According to a caption hung on the exhibition's entrance, Romanticism is a movement that "describes preoccupations of thinkers, writers, and artists expressed with special intensity at a particular point in history: liberty and individual rights, the creative power of the human mind and our relationship to the natural world." In a sense, I see it is a form of worship. By using one's intellect to ponder upon creation and to create and innovate, one is fulfilling his/her purpose. The poets who explored love and the beauty of nature were in essence paying tribute to the factors that make life "special."

I was in awe to see how the oil and water color paintings hung on the museum's walls were a reflection of emotions, moods, feelings experienced by their creators. For instance, Turner actively made use of Color Theory to project certain emotions. Yellow was meant to epitomize hope and divinity, whereas grey and black reflected darkness and emptiness. The Romantics coupled these techniques with images of the sublime. Natural landscapes of mountains, seas, and lakes were meant to show the grandeur of God's creation.

The fact of the matter remains that this was a purely Western movement which thrived in the 17th century. Nevertheless, as a aspiring Romantic, I imagine this movement to be more all-encompassing. Any human being who seeks to use his/her mind to wonder, dream, and create his/her own world qualifies.

As my time in London comes to a conclusion, I am grateful that my time in this city has rekindled my romanticist soul.

The Realization of Al-Nahda

Yesterday I picked up the latest edition of The Economist magazine, proud to see that the spotlight is on Egypt once again. But something was different about this edition. Upon looking at its cover, something resonated within me. There was something alluring about its title, "The Awakening." At first, I didn't quite realize what attracted me so much to these two words, but I toyed around with the phrase in my mind until it struck me later that night as I flipped the glossy pages of Egypt's contemporary history. The Awakening was finally the realization of Al-Nahda the Arabs have always dreamed about!

I had lived my whole life wondering what the solution to the "Egyptian Problem" would ever be. I was sure there had to be a solution. I was trained as an engineer, a profession all about problem-solving, but for some reason I always felt like the "Egyptian Problem" was unsolvable. What could ever reverse our course of history and return us to our magnificent past, the Golden Age of Islamic Empire and the splendors of Ancient Egyptian civilization? It seemed like we Egyptians, in particular, and Arabs, as a whole, were destined to rot under political repression, ignorance, and poverty. Whenever I travelled abroad, I felt that the world was running. Having lived in China, India, the U.S., and Turkey, I felt like there was so much momentum in these nations. People across the world were racing to gain a competitive edge over one another. Yet, when I returned to Egypt, I didn't feel the same energy and dynamism. Unfortunately, people always thought I was naive because of my optimistic thoughts. They were always pessimistic, looking at the empty half of the glass. I swore to make it my life mission to prove them wrong. Hitherto, I dedicated as much effort and resources as I could to make a positive impact on Egypt and its people.

I have always been inquisitive about Al-Nahda, the period in Arab history deemed to be its Renaissance. The reason this period had such an allure in my mind was because it was quite recent, beginning in the 19th century and lasting through the 20th century. It was the period when we gained our independence from Western colonialism and when Arab political and social thought literature. It was a bold attempt at modernizing the Arab World that manifested itself in the works of Mohamed Abdou, Refeh el-Tahtawi, al-Jabarti, and Ahmed Shawqi. These great men looked at the West and sought to emulate its civilization's great achievements in the Arab World. For the first time in the modern era, the Arabs embarked on an intellectual discourse that sought to define their modern identity while preserving the jewels of their Islamic and cultural heritage. I had the honor of being a student of Professor Sawaie, an expert of Al-Nahda at the University of Virginia, where we read primary sources of what was going on in the minds of Al-Nahda's pioneers. I've always believed that it was Al-Nahda's ethos that would awaken the Arabs and make them realize that they have a pivotal role to play on the world stage.

My confusion about the Egyptian Problem and my dreams of Al-Nahda coming into fruition finally confronted on another on January 25, 2011 when young Egyptians took to the streets to declare to the world that their time has come to take matters into their own hands and emerge. For the past 200 years, no philosopher or public thinker had been able to make a breakthrough significant enough to spark Al-Nahda into reality. Al-Nahda, up to that historic date, had always been a figment of the Arabs' imagination, remaining unrealized in many dusty books and studied only in theory. Finally, its time had come to take birth. The Egyptian youth showed the world that the Arabs and Muslims vie for the same things that the rest of the world needs to live harmoniously, namely prosperity, democracy, and modernization.

The Egyptian Revolution of 2011 had finally answered the Egyptian Problem and sparked the long-awaited beacon of Al-Nahda. The Arabs have finally regained control of their destiny and their consciousness that they are worth something and that they have a crucial role to play in the world as their ancestors did. The Egyptian Revolution has had reverberating effects across the region, with revolutions flaring up from the Atlantic Ocean to the Persian Gulf. Soon, the dictators that have imprisoned the Arabs will fall and their repressive regimes will crumble. It is only then, when we have achieved true free freedom will the Arabs have their say, domestically through democratic systems, and internationally through a true representation of the Arab people's ambitions and aspirations in shaping the new world order.

My Egyptian generation, I salute your bold accomplishments. You have achieved what many men have dreamed of their whole lives but have passed away without seeing come into existence. You have written history with your tears, sweat, and blood. But even more importantly, you have lit the kindle that will ignite the flame of realizing Al-Nahda.

The Ironies of Consumerism

I think that many people have the meaning of life reversed. To live a meaningful life, one must find out what their purpose is and strive to succeed in fulfilling it. What better means of doing so than to create? Think about it, whatever you want in life… wouldn’t it be more fruitful to envision what it is and go about fulfilling it according to your specifications. And if whatever you create happens to be a success, that what greater pleasure can you derive than that that comes from sharing it with others?

Nowadays, people live under the illusion that by consuming they are in essence producing. For instance, take the example of fashion or art. Many who believe they are “artistic” reach that conclusion on the basis of how many galleries they visit, the kind of clothes they wear, etc… All of which is aimed at constructing a self-conscious illusion that they are “artistic” to themselves and to others, but at the end of the day, what art are they producing? It is similar to those striving to accumulate status symbols in an effort to convince themselves that they are something they’re really not. At the end of the day, consumerism doesn’t lead to much other than shallowness and emptiness.

I am convinced that only through creation and production do we really fulfill our predestined purpose. Production may come from the most trivial to the most significant aspects in life. Whether it’s a photograph that you take, a poem you write, a song you sing, lecture you deliver… any such production means that you’re living out your purpose. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-capitalist or anything of the sort. I believe in the mutual exchange of ideas and goods, but at the end of the day, I believe that one shouldn’t be at a trade deficit. Of course we need to consume in order to generate new ideas, but what really defines us is our creations.

There’s a quote by Gandhi that is something along the lines of: “Only through the service of others do you truly find yourself.” I wholeheartedly believe in that and I strive to fulfill it in whatever I do, even though I may fail short of complete success. I praise the industrious and entrepreneurial spirit in every individual. I commend those who unleash it, and I aspire to emulate them.

الناس في بلادي: عالمية الأدب و التجربة الإنسانية

في صف الشعر العربي، قرأت قصيدة مثيرة عن الشعب المصري، وأردت أن أنشرها كتدوين في هذه "البلوج." عبارات القصيدة قوية و تجعل الإنسان أن يفكر عن غاية الحياة. في نهاية الحية، سنرجع إلى الطين الذي خلقنا اللة منه. إذن, يعطينا الشاعر صلاح عبد الصبور صورة من الوقع عندما يكتب "الناس في بلادي." هنا، سوف أطهر لكم قصيدة عبد الصبور ثم تعليقي عن القصيدة

الناس فى بلادى ـــ صلاح عبد الصبور

الناس فى بلادى جارحون كالصقور

غناؤهم كرجفة الشتاء فى ذؤابة الشجر

وضخكهم يئز كاللهيب فى الحطب

خطاهمو تريد أن تسوخ فى التراب

ويقتلون، يسرقون، يشربون، يجشأون

لكنهم بشر

وطيبون حين يملكون قبضتى نقود

ومؤمنون بالقدر

وعند باب قريتى يجلس عمى "مصطفى"

وهو يحب المصطفى

وهو يقضّى ساعة بين الأصيل والمساء

وحوله الرجال واجمون

يحكى لهم حكاية.. تجربة الحياة

حكاية تثير فى النفوس لوعة العدم

وتجعل الرجال ينشجون

ويطرقون

يحدقون فى السكون

فى لجة الرعب العميق، والفراغ، والسكون

" ما غاية الإنسان من أتعابه، ما غاية الحياة؟

يا أيها الإله!!

الشمس مجتلاك ، والهلاك مفرق الجبين

وهذه الجبال الراسيات عرشك المكين

وأنت نافذ القضاء أيها الإله

بنى فلان ، واعتلى ، وشيد القلاع

وأربعون غرفة قد ملئت بالذهب اللماع

وفى مساء واهن الأصداء جاءه عزرئيل

يحمل بين إصبعيه دفترا صعير

ومد عزرئيل عصاه

بسر حرفى "كن" ، بسر لفظ "كان"

وفى الجحيم دُحرجت روح فلان

(أيها الإله ...

كم أنت قاس ٍِ موحش أيها الإله).

بالأمس زرت قريتى ، قد مات عمى مصطفى

ووسدوه فى التراب

لم يبتن القلاع (كان كوخه من اللبن)

وسار خلف نعشه القديم

من يملكون مثله جلباب كتان قديم

لم يذكروا الإله أو عزريل أو حروف (كان)

فالعام عام جوع

وعند باب القبرقام صاحبى خليل

حفيد عمى مصطفى

وحين مد للسماء زنده المفتول

ماجت على عينيه نظرة احتقار

فالعام عام جوع

تعليقي عن القصيدة

من أهم أسباب نجاح أي كاتب، إستخدام مواضيع و رموز الإنسانية تجعل إسلوب الكاتب عالمي. على سبيل المثال، نجيب محفوظ من أشهر الكتاب العرب حول العالم، وخصوصا في الأوساط الأدبية الغربية، لأن تطبق مواضيع قصصه على "التجربه الإنسانية." يكتب محفوظ عن مشاعر إنسانية عامة يستطيع كل إنسان من كل جنسية أن يشعر بها. يكتب صلاح عبد الصبور قصيدة "الناس في بلادي" بنفس الأسلوب. التشابه بين محفوظ وعبد الصبور والكتاب العظماء هو أنهم يستخدمون العالمية كتقنية أدبية في كتابتهم. في هذا التحليل، سأكتب عن نجاح عبد الصبور أن ينقل لنا قصة القروي مصطفى ليعبر عن مشاعر إنسانية عالمية.

باختصار، التجربة الإنسانية تبدأ بولادة الإنسان في هذه الدنيا. في وسط رحلة الحياة، يصبح الإنسان متحير عن وجوده. في هذه المرحلة في الحياة، يبحث الإنسان عن أجوبة أسرار العالم من خلال الدين والفلسفة. في نهاية الرحلة، يموت كل إنسان. يكتب عبد الصبور عن دورية الحياة بترتيب زمني عندما يكتب القصيدة.

في أول جزء من القصيدة، يكتب الشاعر عن الشعب المصري بشكل عام. يصف الشعب بصفات مثل "جارحون وطيبون." علاوة على ذلك، سلوكهم تجعلهم أن "يقتلون، يسرقون، يشربون، يجشأون" مثل البشر في أي ركن من أركان العالم. يستخدم الكاتب تقنية التشبيه عندما يصف "غناؤهم كرجفة الشتاء في ذؤابة الشجر" وكيف "ضحكهم يئز كاللهيب في الحطب." هذه الأوصاف لم تشير للشعب المصري فقط بل للبشر حول العالم كذلك. إذن الكاتب يكتب ببراعة عن الحالة الإنسانية.

بقية القصيدة تتحدث عن شخص خيالي اسمه مصطفي. يعطي عبد الصبور هذا الاسم لبطل القصيدة من أجل إيقاع القصيدة لأن "عند باب قريتي يجلس عمي مصطفى وهو يحب المصطفى." علاوة على ذلك، الاسم مصطفى له دلالة دينية. مثل النبي، يقود مصطفى مجموعة من القرويين عندما يناقشون مواضيع مختلفه عن تجربة الحياة. تأثير المناقشة يجعل بكاء الرجال. يصف الشاعر فكرة الموت بمشاعر مثل: "رعب عميق، والفراغ، والسكون." هذه مشاعر تدل على رد فعل كل إنسان عندما يفكر بالموت. إذن، تصل الشخصيات إلى أهم سؤال في تاريخ الفلسفه وهو "ما غاية الحياة؟"

يستخدم عبد الصبور آيات دينية مختلفة في القصيدة. عندما يستخدم رموز الشمس والهلال والجبال، يشير عبد الصبور إلى رموز إسلامية تدل على وجود وعظمة الله. لذلك، القدرية موضوع مهم للبشر. يعطي مصطفى نموذج عن كيف ثروة الإنسان لا تفيدة في الأخرة. يقول مصطفى، "فلان، واعتلى، وشيد القلاع وأربعون غرفة قد ملئت بالذهب اللماع...ومد عزريل عصاه بسر حرفى <<كن>> بسر لفظ <<كان>>." هذه إشارة إلى كيف الأخرة مرحلة مختلفة تماما عن هذة الدنيا. يعبر مصطفى عن رعبه عندما يقول، "يا أيها الإله كم أنت قاس موحش يا أيها الإله!"

تنتهي القصيدة بموت مصطفى. عندما يضع موت البطل في نهاية القصيدة، يعمم الشاعر كيف كل رحلة حياة تنتهي بنفس الصيغة. عندما يموت محبوب في أي مكان، تشعر عائلته "بالإحتقار." الموت يجعل الناس يشكون في رحمة إلههم. يعطي الكاتب مثالا من ذلك عندما يصف مشاعر خليل حفيد مصطفى "حين مد للسماء زنده المفتول ماجت على عينيه نظرة أحتقار." إذن، تظهر لنا القصيدة مشاعر البشر في المراحل المختلفة في حياة الإنسان. أتفق مع معظم وجهات نظر عبد الصبور، ولكن أعتقد أن الإيمان والتسليم للقدر يجعل الإنسان يقبل كل شيء من الله، حتى الموت.

بإخلاص،

مصطفى

Where Does God Live?

I once read somewhere something along the lines of:

I looked for God in a church; I could not find Him.
I looked for God in a mosque; I could not find Him.
I looked for God in my heart, and I found Him.

These sage words have remained with me since. Belief in God, I believe, is an internal as the deepest corner of the heart, where His sacred temple resides. I have always thought to myself, does the location and techniques we use to worship Him really matter? Imagine if we could convert a consumerist hub like a mall, with all its luscious space, into a mosque. Or rather, what if it were a universal mosque, where Jews, Christians, and Muslims can worship God in their own approach; because isn't it the same God after all?

Yet, I do have to admit that I was stunned by what I witnessed yesterday. I never thought about it, but to this day, we continue to build our houses of worship in old-age architecture. Why is that? Is religion not compatable with modernity? Hence, for the first time in my life, I had witnessed a modern-style architecturally built mosque; it was simply revolutionary. Not only that, but the mosque's designer was a female, quite a feat in and of itself in the Islamic world.

I was flabbergasted when first reading an article about the construction of this mosque sometime ago on a bbc article, but visiting this mosque yesterday was a completely different experience. The simplicity and modernity of the mosque's interior and courtyard emitted such a tranquility I had not experienced at a mosque before. Even the design of the mosque itself took theological philosophy into consideration, which I thought was remarkable. Although the designer had placed the prayer section for women behind that of the men, it had elevated them to allow them a better glimpse of the mosque's internal view. I thought this to be very much in line with the notion that heaven is underneath mothers' feel in Islam, i.e. the mosque symbolizing heaven.

Overall, I feel like Islam has always encouraged architecture as a means of positively influencing believers. This is not an Islamic concept on its own, but one of all faiths. Yet, since our childhood, we are told that a mosque is God's home. No wonder why the architects of Istanbul's graceful mosques have meticulously strived to manifest God in their work. I recall reading in Alain de Botton's Architecture of Happiness that Islamic theologians strived to write beauty into matter in the construction of mosques, because ultimately beauty beauty translanted into purity and goodness of faith. This was the believe that by absorbing the beauty of architecture, one could become a better person. This is very much in line with the teachings of Avicenna's teachings that "God is the source of every beautiful thing."

I believe that the moral of this story is that with modernity in Islam can still come beauty...

The Philosophy of Emulation

Days and days of delving into literature and art have led me to conclude that everything is a mere emulation of something else, i.e. its double. From people to paintings, nothing seems original to me anymore.

The string of words you read before your eyes and they stylistic means by which I intermingle them are an adoption of the convoluted web of the archives of my literary intelligence. As I extrapolate this theorem, I hereby claim that everything under the sun is a mere replica of...yes, you've figured it out, something else under the sun.

This thought occurred to me not out of a spark of ingenuity, but rather from experience. To claim that two "creations" are identical may be a bit too far fetched, but to claim that all knowledge is built upon a precedent reservoir of other, twin-like knowledge would not be outlandish. So you ask yourself, what about the issues of plagiarism and intellectual property that seem to be the buzz words of today? Well I hate to break it to you, but they're meaningless in the literary and art world. Let me prove my point...

Ever since my youth, I have always taken pride in claiming that so-and-so invention belonged to my civilization, be it Egyptian, Islamic, or Arab...

Just when we were learning about the "atom" in middle school, I recall, during a cab ride up 2nd Avenue on the East Side of Manhattan, the Pakistani driver was insistent on proving to me that the West had ripped off everything from the East. It were the likes of Ibn Sina, Ibn Firnas, etc... that were behind such great movements like the Scientific Revolution and not their Western counterparts. I was convinced.

I was young, biased, and uninformed at the time... for I was later taught that "All knowledge is one!" It doesn't matter who invented what or who stole what from what...as long as it was a contribution to the breadth of mankind's understanding of this dream we call life, the it was valid...

To begin with, all knowledge is traced back to the Source. Whether you believe in God or Allah, all knowledge is divinely inspired, or so I believe. Whether it's Ibn Arabi's account of Mohamed's travels to the seven heavens or Dante's Divine Comedy, they are both one and the same, inspired by the Source. The fact that both discources discuss Heaven and Hell at about the same time to such exact twin-like precision indicates that there must be an inspring Source.

After reading Robinson Crusoe, I was proud of accomplishing a feat worthy of laudation, i.e. reading the first novel ever written in English. I was shocked to then find out that this was a mere copy of the Moorish Ibn Tufeyl's novel with the same plot, except applied to an Arab setting. This time the outcast was marooned on a desert island instead of a nautical one.

The point is to claim that so and so is a rip-off of so and so is to simplistic when delving into the matter of twin-like knowledge.

I recently toured an exhibition at the Sabanci Museum titled "Travel to the West". It was the story of the Turkish artists of the 19th century that ventured to Paris to acquire a taste for design, perspective, anatomy, and artistic concepts that would leand them to emulate the classical, romantic, and realistic movement works of their French counterparts. What these Turks came back with is the skill set of painting Istanbul with the same exact techniques that the French painted Paris. Hence, emulation of knowledge under different circumstances is another attribute of imitation.

This brings me to the point that I've been craving to make. Does it ever occur to you that you try to become somebody else? Well, think about it, don't we live in a society that expects to act a certain way, look a certain way, achieve in a certain way... Say, in religion, isn't it a matter of reaching perfection so as to emulate the virtues of Mohamed or Jesus, in work and business, isn't it a matter of achieving the success of some tycoon, say Bill Gates, in sports its a David Beckham, et cetera, et cetera. The point is, in every realm of knowledge or every activity in life, there is always an extreme that one has to imitate.

To be frank, I really have no clue where I'm going with this entry, but I'm enjoying penning down my stream of consciousness...

But what if one becomes too enveloped in this craving to become someone else? Does it lead to instanity or ingenuity? Can one become one's self? Should one be embarressed that he's not satisfied with his own being and is always eyeing others to emulate or is that what we should aspire to be doing (either because of personal or societal reasons)? I pose these questions to some curious reader who has ventured this far...

But if what if there truly is a soul-mate out there that is meant for us to emulate? Is it loneliness and lack of self-worth that drives one to want to be someone else, or is it truly our destiny to morph into some other being? Whether its through our actions, writings, or reasoning, is there anything that we acquire and produce that is truly original? Does the mere rearrangement of acquired knowledge to innovate considered original?

Now that I do not believe in originality, I believe that the true art of emulation stems from the adaption of the phenomena created, or rather emulated, over the centuries by our forefathers who roamed this world who were inspired by divinity. By drawing upon the creations of these renaissance men, and tweeking these creations a bit here and a bit there, aren't we creating something that can be called our own?

This is the reason why I am inspired to write. Reading something truly magnificent, be it a poem of Rumi's, a prose from some Nobel laureate's speech, or some other great work, I aspire to also become a creator of such a marvel. Hence, to draw upon other sources as I write is a way of continuing the philosophy of emulation.. I implore you to think, dear reader, whether this philosophy could truly be the "secret" that has led many on the paths of success, fame, and glory...

The Law of Attraction & The Secret

I just finished watching The Secret, recommended to me by friend, whom I have always found to be blissful, optimistic, and hopeful. Although I was always a true believer that life should be lived in accordance with the philosophies of the ancients, I was content to watch such a motivational movie. The secret is essentially based on the Law of Attraction, which claims that the power of the mind is insurmountable. Simply put, the idealistic notion behind this law is that man becomes what he thinks about and that we should spend the majority of our time thinking about what we desire. The universe supposedly works in mysterious ways to deliver what we ask of it. All that is required of us is to feel and think about such desires. The trick is to always remain grateful, be positive, and visualize what we desire.

Essentially the steps of the Law Of Attraction are broken down into three steps:
1. Ask- Know what you want and ask the universe for it.
2. Believe- Feel and behave as if the object you desire is on its way.
3. Receive- Be open to receiving it.

Personally, I felt like The Secret had a very existentialist connotation to it. It goes along with the lines that we are solely responsible for achieving our happiness and that God exists but he is merely waiting for us to determine our destiny. Additionally, it advocates being blissful and that searching for bliss is man's mission in life, which I agree with wholeheartedly. It also mentions that we are essentially made up of energy, just like every other creation in this universe and that we must merely focus on attracting it. What it comes down to is that our thoughts determine our reality whether we are conscious or unconscious of it. I believe the basic premises of this theory are a positive augmentation to anyone's outlook on life and should definitely be practiced. I also feel that we are innately born knowing all of the postulates of this theory, so the whole conspiracy that this secret was kept from humanity is a bit exaggerated for me. But all in all, I like the positivity aspect it advocates.

The Modern Nahda

Sometimes I wish that I could write down the dialogues that Omar and I exchange on our road trips back and forth to and from DC. But one expression that Omar mentioned to me kept whirling in my head this whole week and it ran something along the lines of "Sometimes I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders when I remember the responsibility bestowed upon us." What exactly did he mean by this? At least the way I interpreted it suggested that this "weight" is what defines our purpose here. Why have I left Egypt to come half way across the world to study in Charlottesville? I sometimes ponder. Then I remember that I am part of a greater movement. It is people like Omar and me that fuel the engine for the awakening, the renaissance, call it what you will..., but heed my words, there is a subtle movement bubbling from the grassroots that will revolutionize the world.

There is no denying that the Arab and Muslim world is going through its dark ages. Although I do not wish to convert this blog entry into another "clash of civilizations" story of how we are the underdogs in comparison to the West, why deny that we have yet to have a revolution on the scale of the European Renaissance, Enlightenment, and Scientific Revolution? I believe that our forefathers had sowed the seeds for such a revolution, but it had never really materialized. Our revolution was called Al-Nahda.

I have familiarized myself with this movement through my readings of memories, autobiographies, and documentaries that I have read in my Arabic studies here at the University of Virginia. It is truly an eye-opener to see the plethora of great works that came out of the Arab World since its decline since the so-called Golden Age that spanned from the 8th century to the 13th century. The Nahda was an intellectual moevement that took place during the early 20th century in Egypt and Lebanon to define an Arab identity through literature. This was an intellectual movement aimed at reform, modernization, and the revival of the Arab fortitude in a modern world where ideologies were competing for supremacy.

The Nahda encouraged an open eye to learn from the world, which was essentially what brought Islam to the forefronts of the world when it embraced everything from Greek to Hindu philosophies.

Why do I embrace the Nahda? Partly because I feel like I am bestowed with an opportunity that the 19th century proponents of the movement were given. I was bestowed with the opportunity to study in the civilizational beacon of knowledge. I am given the unique opportunity to study the Western intellect through science and education. Before my eyes, I have seen one of the most epic shifts in power in the world, the transition of the U.S. government from regime to another. Some in my part of the world couldn't even fathom seeing such a shift in their governments in their lifetime. It is my submergence in Western life and its instutions that motivates me to bring back to Egypt with me a toolkit of methods to modernize, reform, and advance the state of our nation. My tone is ambitious, but my heart is determined.

Upon his return from Paris, Rifa El Tahtawi, an emissary by Mohamed Ali Pasha suggested that we have a lot to learn from the West, but that we should always keep an open-minded approach to modernism that is tailored to the values of Islam.

My particular interest in the Nahda stems from my readings. I have taken several Arabic literature and prose classes at the university and they have exposed me to a period where Arabic literature had seemed to reach its prime. Since Arabic is the lingua franca of most of the Middle East, the exchange of ideas and information quickly led to the ascendence of the Nahda in major cities like Cairo and Beirut and there was an ardent interaction between the two sides through the circulation of literary publications, as I shall outline in my later entries. Magazines such as Al Resalla (The Message), Loghatna al-Gameela (Our Beautiful Language) and al Fagr (The Dawn) exposed Arab readers to the talents around their world. Today, these magazines have sadly disappeared. Moreover, due to the partitioning of the Arab world by the West, many sought opportunities abroad.

My particular interest stems from the Lebanese diaspora, and especially those who traveled to the West. Some of the greatest writers the Arab World has ever seen has been those in exile. This is where the likes of Khalil Gibran Khalil sprung from. To some extent, I feel the same distance from my home like them. I wouldn't be surprised if this same nostalgia that I feel is what inspires me to read and wrte so much about my home land.

Homegrown talents such as Naguib Mahfouz, Taha Husseuin, and other Egyptians pushed this movement forward. But it is worth noting that Taha Husseuin also experience the same Western exposure that I am undergoing myself. The West offers a distinct atmosphere for the exchange of ideas, where you have access to every piece of information known to humankind at your finger tips. This is an advantage that no other civilization can offer nowadays. Despite my reservations about living in the West, I know that this is the suitable environment to develop one's intellect.

The essence of the Nahda was an exposure of the Arab World to the free thought and health competition of ideas that propelled the West to forefronts of the world. Unfortunately, the paranoia of modern day fundamentalist ideologies, both religious and secular have chocked any breathing space for new ideas to be brought to the table that could potentially change the current system. My experience here in the States has been an one that has taught me to be open, rational, progressive, and a distinct love for knowledge. I hope to bring back this spirit of intellectual inquiry to have some impact back home. But my quest from knowledge is far from complete. As I learn more and more about this movement of the Nahda, I will strive to emulate it more and more in my endeavors.

The Art of Chinese Tea

After spending almost a month here in China, I have come to realize that the consumption of green tea is both an art and a lifestyle that is unmatched anywhere else in the world. Luckily for me, my taste buds are akin to the exasperating taste of tea. As I have found out from a Chinese friend, and after doing some reading, the history of Chinese tea is not one that merely satisfies the Chinese, but is ingrained in an ancient philosophy of their way of life, i.e. the philosophy of Qi Gong, which is an art and science of natural energy.

Obviously I knew the difference between green, black, and herbal tea, but never realized that the richness of the tea can vary to various degrees. It was a realization I made when my Chinese friend, Xiaohuan offered me tea from the Yunan province, told to be some of the rarest and most precious tea offered in China. I realized that the aroma, color and taste of the tea all played a role in giving one the pleasure of tea. I was later informed that the cultivation of tea is an art in China. The climate, the soil, the quality of cultivation, and the degree of fermentation all determine the kind of tea one can be sipping. Evidently, green tea is tea in its purest tea as it is mostly unfermented, while black tea is the result of fermented green tea. I was actually shocked to find out that both black and green tea originate from the same plant, i.e. camellia sinensis.

Tea's quality doesn't matter only for aesthetic or flavor reasons, but has a long history. Tea is a natural form of Chinese medicine. Each type of tea, according to Chinese legend, has its own energy level according to the Qi Gong philosophy. Xiaohuan's father once informed me that it is advisable to drink black tea in the winter and green tea in the summer to balance our internal and external temperature levels.

On another level, tea has spiritual benefits and has long been used by Buddhists for meditation. I truly have experienced tea's mood altering effects. Believe me, some incense and tea can be the ultimate stress reliever.

Personally, I enjoy my cup of tea to be bitter in flavor by not adding any sugar to it. I am not sure whether it is a habit to taste the meloncholic life that I sometimes love to embrace or whether its merely my taste buds craving to taste tea in its most original form. From experience, I can attest that tea helps one become serene, bright, and healthy. What I truly tend to savor about tea is the company of friends and family I will be enjoying this tea. Tea is an excellent way to share harmony, peace, and tranquility with others.

While reading some Taoist texts, I happened to cross upon a poem about tea that I tremendously enjoyed.

In gratitude for a gift of fresh tea

The first bowl moistens my lips and throat;
The second bowl banishes all loneliness;
The third bowl clears my mind of words and books.
At the fourth cup, I begin to perspire-
life's troubles evaporate through my pores.
The firth cup cleanses my entire being.
Six cups and I am in the realm of the Divine.
Seven cups-ah, but I can drink no more:
I can only feel the gentle breeze blowing through my sleeves,
wafting me away to the Isle of Immortality!

-Lu Tong, 18th Century Chinese Poet

On the Exoticism of the Orient

Since my arrival to China, I have observed many similar traits that transcend the borders of what has come to identified as the Orient. These traits have been observed, imagined, and recorded by Western Orientalists. Through my readings of oriental works ranging from Gustav Flaubert to Edward Said, I have come to the conclusion that there is a intricate entanglement between fact and fiction of the Oriental world. During my readings of my part of the world and that of the Far East, which I have been trying to familiarize myself with even more, I was astounded to see that there is a truly exotic flavor to what the orient truly is. Through my literary journeys with Flaubert, Delacroix, Voltaire, Defoe, Goethe and even Pamuk, I have come to identify some sources of this multifaceted identity of the Orient that has come to intrigue some of the greatest philosophes to walk this earth.

Before divulging into my findings, I would like to make two points clear. Primarily, my investigation of the Oriental world should not be confused with Edward Said's criticism of Western stereotypes of the Arab and Muslim world, but is an embracement of the literary and artistic achievement of Western philosophers in emulating the virtues they witnessed on their travels to the region. The second point is that although I will aim to extend my investigation to reach the furthest corners of the Oriental World, from Turkey in the Far West of the Orient and China in the Far East of the Orient, my bias will tend to drift to a focus on the center of the Orient, Egypt.

It is in this spirit that I will strive to romanticize the land of the Orient by exploring the various avenues that it has led to occupied in the fantasies of Orientalists for many centuries. First and foremost, Orientalism is a result of the mutual cultural exchange between the West and East and the apprehensions each of of sides had of the other. Various artistic and literary emulations of the East have ranged from Turquerie to Chinoiserie, which respectively are imitations of Turkish and Chinese art forms in the West. I can divulge about Montesquieu's Persian Letters or Van Gogh's emulation of Japanese art, which both seem tremendously exotic to me, but instead I choose focus on land that, although dubbed oriental, doesn't seem to exotic in my eyes, mostly because of my ardent familiarization with it. Although the exotism of Egypt "as a distant land" doesn't quite appeal to me, its ancient history is one that boggles my mind. How could single land have hosted some of history's renown men and women, face so many cultural changes, influence the world and be influenced in so many ways and yet retain such a firm identity. This mere notion excites me with the exoticism of my homeland and fills me with expansive, lovely, glorious, poetic dreams of a land that seems so exotic even though I can claim right to calling it my own. These are the stimuli that exoticism have on one!

Flaubert was once quoted by characterising the orient with a single phrase:
"Long live the sun, long live the orange trees, palm trees, lotus flowers, and cool pavilions paved with marble and wood-panelled chambers that talk of love! the Orient with her burning sun, her blue skies, her golden minarets, her caravans through the sand, the tanned, olive skin of Asiatic women-the Orient!"

The imagery of this single quote is what fills my imagination like a pot filling a cask of cool mint tea on a sunny day in the desert. Reading of the orient quenches my thirst for exoticism, for the desire to continue living and traveling in oriental lands.

Now the Orient isn't just the beauty that the European romanticists depict to be, it is also the dreggy slums and backstreets of Cairo and Istanbul, but I have come to admire the dust and filth as a characteristic that defines the Orients modern day melancholic condition as Pamuk recounts in his memories of Istanbul. I could sit in the midst of the chaos in Khan El Khalili bazaar for hours on end and embrace and appreciate the shouting of the sales bakaals, the multilingual bargaining of merchants with what seem to us as exotic blonde foreigners, the Athan broadcasted above the minarets of El Huessain Mosque, the various aromas of the spice market, the colors of the various Chinese silk and Egyptian cotton garments, the moaning of donkeys, the sparkling lights of the Sufi night shows. Isn't this the colorful clamor that defines the Orient? Isn't the legendary Silk Road the bond that defines the fraternity of the Eastern cultures?

I understand that you may be wondering where this entry is going to take me... but that is another trait of the orient: the fluid, non-structured, and eclectic stream of conscious that might seem heretic to the orthodox mind. The chaos that defines the orient is the natural tendency for life to be all over the place, to be natural, free from the man-made structures and systems that we constrained the freedom of life to flow. Orientalism is the realization that life is the water that flows with volatility when shattering a glass filled with water. Tidiness and neatness disgust the orientalist as he seeks the natural tendency of life! We cannot deny that humans are not the divine, G0d-made creatures that we always envision them to be in their best light, but they are also animals that can be reckless and wild, and the Orient is the epitome of the jungle that defines the freedom for their imagination to flow. This best evident in the arts of Tunisian tiles where flowers, fruits, and nature are intricately intertwined to produce master pieces of art. Moreover, Persian poetry, which is so light and free flowing is what paints these images in words that can allow each individually to paint such imagery with his or her own imagination.

Moreover, the orient is a land where duality is defines the nature of people with an acceptance of the glorious palaces while the witness of the poor and filthy, a history of several milenia while the latest trend setting sky scrapers of the modern cities, the sexual fantasies of the harem and the purity and sacredness of religion, and so on and so forth. It is this duality that makes the Orient so bewildering to the Western mind. How could a culture have such diametrically opposite directions of aims.

To this day, the orient boggles our mind with a vast array of historical novels, films, photos, paintings, etc... Fortunately I can relive this exotic world of the orient through my readings and travels and see what remains of what truly fascinated the Western travelers that came to be known as the Orientalists. I sincerely hope that my fortune to travel and read such an expansive array of works will enlighten me and allow me to carry the torch that has shed such positive light on the Orient in what seem to be the Orient's dark times of today.

Lessons From Robinson Crusoe

Ever morning, in the midst of the chilling cold, I would take a comfy seat in one of the sunny corners of the house to meet with, for lack of a better word, mentor on life, Robinson Crusoe. Despite receiving this novel from a dear friend ages ago, I'd never had the opportunity to read it in one streak. I begun reading Defoe's masterpiece during my solitary state back in Charlottesville, during which I accustomed myself to the individualistic and lonesome state of a cast away. Similar to Crusoe who'd made his island his kingdom, I created a world of my own in this newfound state of mine. Despite having to cut my acquaintance with Crusoe short due to being bogged down with studies, I always kept in mind the isolationist mentality of Crusoe and the benefits it entails. Despite my reunion with my family this vacation, I realize more than ever that, albeit paradoxically, my mentality of living the cast away life holds. To a certain extent, I am the same cast away I was in Charlottesville in the sense that I find little pleasure in the petty extravagances of the materialistic and consumerist culture that has come to preoccupy people today. Instead, I enjoyed learning the A, B, Cs of life from Crusoe, whom I can attest seemed to have so much more life than many of my acquaintances in reality.

In short, Robinson Crusoe is a novel by Danial Defoe, considered to be the first English novel, of a cast away who despite all his fortunate fate decides to venture out to sea to make his own destiny despite all the unfavorable omens that present themselves. During his isolation on this Island, which is presumably in the heart of the Caribbean, Crusoe recounts on his daily undertakings in the form of a journal. Considering my endeavor to maintain a daily journal, I attempted to learn from Crusoe's style. Crusoe's accounts explores the various facets of human nature and how man can create his own civilization. The island becomes a microcosm of the world and Crusoe's philosophies become representative of the various disciplines of knowledge that stem out to cover theology, morals, economics, etc... Dufoe explores the many dimensions of the human mind and reflects it through Crusoe's accounts. It is worth noting that Dufoe was likely inspired to write this piece based on the Moorish Ibn Tufail's Hayy Ib Yaqdhan, which is also the first philosophical novel that immensely influenced European and Middle Eastern literature and philosophy. Back to Crusoe, Defoe explores the various phases of solitude and the discovery of how man's true craving for life is finding a closer relationship with "Providence."

Subsequent to reading any work, I like to write a book review so as to share my thoughts of the piece, so I thought I'd make this review public considering that I found the novel to be quite entertaining and informative.

Relativity of Happiness
Upon leaving the life he delighted in, whereby he may have stayed in the comfortable lifestyle of his country and family, but rather decided to go to sea, Crusoe reminded me of my aspirations and apprehensions of leaving what I considering to be my comfort zone for the sake of pursuing my educational goals in America. "I might as well have stayed at home and never have fatigued myself in the world as I had done," is the feeling that I sometimes have while abroad that Crusoe expresses so well. This puts me on a stream of consciousness during which I begin to regret leaving it all behind, whereby I at times feel loneliness, question the value and merit of work, and begin becoming uncertain as to what I am doing at such a distance from home. These questions arise when comparing my current state to one that enjoyed more success or bliss, and this is natural, but it is also crucial to compare my current state to one that may be more destitute and to seek the merit and opportunity in the current state. Crusoe states, "It put me upon reflecting how little repining there would be among mankind at any condition of life, if people would rather compare their condition with those that are worse in order to be thankful, than be always compare them with those which are better, to assist their murmuring and complaining." It is a matter of attitude towards the present condition that will define your level of happiness, so it is best to make the best out of it, as Crusoe resolved to do while on his island.

"It was now that I began sensibly to feel how much more happy this life I now led was, with all its miserable circumstances...and my delights were perfectly new from what they were at my first coming," is Crusoe's revelation of coming to terms with his undesirable situation. Similarly, at times of doubt in Charlottesville, I look at how far I've come as to improving my state, in terms of my intellectual transformation and newly acquired hobbies as a result of my solitude. That in times of destitute, escapism may be a justified way out, whereby reading, traveling, writing and recreation are a few of my ways to vent myself. More importantly, as Candide concludes in Voltaire's work, Crusoe also concludes that "labor and patience carried me through." Crusoe resolves, as I have sometimes come to conclude, "It was possible for me to be more happy in this forsaken solitary condition than it was probably I should ever have been in any other particular state in the world."

Faith in God
Another essential theme that increased my awareness as to the importance of having faith is that belief in God may be a means of salvation in the most dire of times. Faith is a mere reflection of what is inside one's heart. Remembrance of God is a introspective mechanism that allows one to remember his own aspirations. Crusoe is overwhelmed with his deliverance on the island that his life takes a whole new turn with his faith that his destiny lies in the hands of God and he bestows his fear and gratitude in these same hands. For in solitude and destitute, it is most comforting to rely on a supreme being that may carve the path for one. I don't mean to preach like a priest, but I think that each of us can relate, on one level or the other, to these fatalistic feelings. Also, the lesson of karma is one that is emphasized, whereby Crusoe's actions are always rewarded or punished by his present conditions, for "what goes around, comes around." This is evident in the fact that we are not only tried for our deeds in the hereafter, but also punished for his sins in this world. This is evident through the Platonic action-reaction sequence that Defoe puts Crusoe through.

It is interesting that Crusoe points out that we expect God to remember us at all times, even though we only remember Him, out of desperation, when we really need Him. This is reflected by Crusoe's first prayer, which is "Lord, be my help, for I am in great distress." Also, despite the extreme faith that Crusoe puts in God at his early stages of his stay on the island, he later experiences fear that "banished all [his] religious hope. All that former confidence in God, which was founded upon such wonderful experience as I had of His goodness, now vanished."

It is also through Crusoe's metaphysical pondering and questioning of life that he naturally discovers the existence of God. It is through asking such questions of life, such as "What is this earth and sea? Where is it produced? And what am I, and all the other creatures, where are we? Sure we are all made by some secret Power, who formed the earth and sea, the air and sky. And who is that?" questions Crusoe, and continues by stating, "Then it followed most naturally, It is God that has made it all." This discovery is followed by full submission to God's will, whereby Crusoe states that He has the sole power for Crusoe's fate and everything that happened in the world.

It is also intriguing to discover that, without us knowing it, God talks to us through signs, and even most directly through religion. Crusoe discovers a verse in the title that puts his heart and mind at ease: "Call on Me in the day of trouble, and I will deliver, and though shalt glorify Me." Religion becomes a way for Crusoe to connect to God through various rituals such as fasting, prostration, and other religious exercises. Despite Crusoe's religion is that of Christianity, his account affirms to me, more than ever, that religions are merely different ways of achieving the same goal, that is getting closer to God. Crusoe resolves that he wants nothing from life but to be able to make sense of God's goodness, care over his present condition, and be his daily consolation. These are the only requirements he has to achieve a state of benediction.

Money
Another theme that interested me tremendously was the worthlessness of money. Crusoe is in possession of gold, silver, and money but remarks that it is nasty, sorry, and useless, whereby he doesn't have the least advantage of it and it is of no use to him. It is ironic how people worship money whereby its intrinsic value is nothing. Imagine a perfect world without the disease of money, wouldn't people value life so much more then?

Society
Society is a very crucial topic when considering Crusoe's mentality. Although he craves for other humans with which to interact on the island, he is also driven into a fit of fear when realizing that others may have landed on the island. When seeing the footprint of a fellow man on the island, he imagines that the devil has landed on the island. This brings the interesting issue of our want for society versus our repulsion from it. It also draws a very existentialist viewpoint by which, as Satre claims, "Hell is other people." This drives Crusoe into paranoia, which ultimately leads him to hide in a cave for months on end without the slightest clue of the nature of his fellow man.

Morality & Judging Others
Crusoe is faced with the dilemma of executing some of the cannibals that land on his island because of their inhumane practices. Despite his superiority in weaponry, he resolves that it his not his duty to punish these savages. Although they were guilty of crimes, it as not his business nor duty to judge them, but rather he should leave it to God, for He is the ultimate and supreme judge. This brings a very interesting point in contemporary affairs whereby war is carried out by those who are convinced, by their judgment, that they must persecute others. Unfortunately some abuse the name of God in order to carry out these persecutions whereby they lack understanding that we will should only be judged by God. I am convinced that if people are given and give the prerogative to be left alone and to leave others to be left alone, this would would be a much better place.

Instinct
Crusoe remarks on how our instincts are sometimes inspired by some supernatural force to signal to us that there are certain dangers we should avoid and opportunities we should pursue. This is what you might call your gut feeling. Although it may seem logical at times to do a certain thing, certain dispositions from "Heaven" may persuade us to go against our logic for our own good. This is proof of our interaction with the supernatural world and how superstition may be explained. To be explained scientifically, this reminds me of Malcom Gladwell's Blink, which explores the power of taking decisions and thinking based on instincts and gut feelings, which I find to a modern version of Crusoe's discourse about instincts.

In conclusion, I truly grateful to she who recommended that I read this fabulous novel. Although this is a child's tale that our parents' generation would read in their schools, there are many lessons that can be drawn from this child tales. They range from very grave philosophical ideas to practical ways of leading one's life. I believe these tales are meant to instill lessons and ideas in the mind that can allow us to become more complete humane people. It is the lessons we draw from these tales that makes us who we are today. So quite frankly, I can admit that this is a book that makes me look at life in a completely new perspective.

The Writer's Manifesto

Enclosing myself in what I have come to call my den, among the plethora of books, soothing Sufi music in the background, and tantalizing aroma of hibiscus whirling up from my tea, I write. I have begun to muse on this virus that has grasped my soul with vigor; yet, strangely, I have come to embrace its addiction. Pursuing this passion has allowed me to discover facets of this world that I once deemed unfathomable. A passion that has come to be as natural as breathing, as essential as observing, and as elating as nirvana. It is the passion of the simplistic activity of writing that I speak of.

The need to write puts me on a journey where I find myself frantically racing against time to record my thoughts before my flow has elapsed. Similar to my passion for reading, writing is a complementary activity that allows me to fully absorb, through reflection, my readings so as to fully comprehend and conceptualize the ideas of what I read. Writing, for me, transcends reason. When starting, I find myself unable to stop in my endeavor to explore every single notion that may be hidden in the depths of my mind. It is like my desire to examine every single artifact in a museum, read its description, ponder upon what use the ancients may have put it to, paint its every curve and edge in my mind's eye, and envision it in its original world and time. It is in this spirit that I examine my thoughts thoroughly and attempt to reflect them with sincerity on paper.

Every night, I rush to pen my reflects upon the events, observations, reflections, and ideas of the day. The activity of recording a mere wrinkle in time doesn't suffice in allowing me to explore my inner self. Writing allows me to introspectively divulge into issues, thoughts, and ideas that allow me to paint a world with mere ink inscriptions on paper. The plethora of stimuli that I have previously mentioned allow me to explore the deepest and darkest corners of my mind to conjure emotions and impressions, with complete spontaneity, to spill on paper. It is the nocturnal spirit of the night that brings about a flow of concentration and a mood of melancholy and loneliness that inspires me to reflect into the bottomless abyss of my imagination.

Subsequent to writing a page or two of my diary, I look down at my words to see a reflection of myself, that is my inner self. The words one writes at night mirror the observations of the world that one's eyes skimmed during the day; the words one writes on paper mirror the emotions that one experiences in the heart. Peering into the abyss of one's water well, one discovers a holistic reflection of himself. The true challenge of writing is to bring this inner self to life, viz. to allow your writing to endow you with life. It through writing that you discover your inner self and paint the world where this inner spirit runs free. Each word plants a seed that ultimately bears the fruits of the Garden of Eden, where my imagination stems up and wraps around this fictitious world like evergreen branches of ivy. Just like the vines of ivy crawl into every void of a deserted house, so does the imagination that creeps into every dimension of my mind to flood such impressions on paper.

Similar to those who find a passion in building things, as close acquaintance of mine (i.e. Omar) does, writing is an activity that witnesses words put on top of one another like building blocks to construct a masterpiece. At times, these blocks collapse altogether and I find myself tearing, crumbling, and shooting draft after draft in the bin until I discover a product that appeases my perfectionist spirit. Similar to "building things," it is not the result, be it a masterpiece or rubbish, that pleases the writer, but the struggle, the means, and the way. To carry out such a significant endeavor as to express the impressions and emotions endowed to you from a supernatural power is a feat that requires perseverance. To a very large extent, the discipline and rigor that engineering has instilled in me is what fuels this patience and steadfastness to produce the perfect work, at least that which is complete in my eyes. For isn't beauty in the eyes of the beholder?

This brings me to another point, which is that of the manifestation of one's writing in the art of literature. The novel, play, poem, etc... is a mere reflection of one's experiences. Recently, I have been reading a lot of Alaa El Aswany's works and have realized that his niche has come about from the fact that he draws upon his experiences to produce his writing. Wasn't it his clinic in the actual Yacoubian Building in Downtown Cairo that inspired his magnum opus? Or his study at the University of Illinois in Chicago that resulted in his latest novel, Chicago. Aren't the characters of his works mere manifestations of the various dimensions of the writer's complex personality? Similarly, I aim to portray writing as an outlet that reflects the internal stirrings, dilemmas, and indecisiveness that preoccupies my mind. Although I am not a novelist, or not just yet, I am to assert my viewpoints and stances in a manner that may take the form of different competing perspectives so that the most worthy contender may manifest itself in my writing as the victor.

Despite these feelings and aspirations, I worry that coming out as a writer will lead me to be shunned. It is unfortunate that being an intellectual in this age has come to be looked upon as being snobbish and arrogant. Will my dreams lead me to be alienated from others, whereby I will fail to relate to others because of our different levels of understanding? I as myself. Especially as a native of the Arab World, where the chances of success as a literary figure are slim to none, this dilemma demotivates me tremendously. It is truly saddening that my culture, which once embraced authorship as the source of its Golden Era, during which the likes of Rumi and Omar El Khayam were exalted, has come to look down upon the practice of writing and embrace backward ideologies. Prophet Mohamed was once quoted for saying, "The ink of a scholar is more valuable than the blood of a martyr." It is a true shame how we have fallen into the epoch of the modern dark ages. Despite the external constraints of becoming a writer, what intimidates me the most is my personal incompetence, viz. the fact that my work may not be worthy of others to lay their eyes upon. This turmoil leads me to feel vulnerable. It is for this reason I would never imagine of revealing these thoughts to those who expect the most from me. But here I sit revealing these emotions to those who are understanding of my intentions and share similar aspirations.

What truly inspired me to come out with these emotions of my dreams of becoming a writer was when C*, a dear friend of mine, bestowed me with advice on becoming a "good story teller." Suddenly, I was able to make the connection between my passion for books, as mentioned in my entry My Library, and my intense desire to write. It is in solitude that I have come to love life the most. Charlottesville was a blessing in disguise, where I have come to savor the experience of escaping to cafes and bookstores to read and write. It is this escapist mentality that craves for my solitude to discover different worlds that I can later divulge about. The downside to escapism, be it daydreaming, reading, or writing, is that it entails a very anti-social flavor to it. This seclusion from society is what gives the bitter taste of melancholy from losing touch with reality, but also gives the elation of being among his books and thoughts. Life's a balance and the challenge is to offset the risks, a dear friend once told me. I choose to live on the edge, to detach myself from reality, and discover the goldmines I have come to call my books.

It is with these books that I can confabulate by writing responses and reviews in my writings during which a dialogue with the writers allows me to relate with them and truly sympathize with their plight. My partners in pens are those who are both from the Orient and the West, whereby I call upon the former to vitalize my soul with the mystical works and call upon the latter to enlighten me with knowledge. Both genres of books share one similarity, i.e. they are of a classical nature. Why do I engulf myself in classics, when they are archaic and irrelevant in these modern times? It is because they speak words of authenticity from a time when knowledge was merely awakening. This is the phase of my writing. Gradually, as my writing matures, so will my taste for reading, but as of now, I aim to cover the landmark classics that have laid the groundwork for subsequent works to come about. As a finish Robinson Crusoe, a mere children's tale, I read a work that encompasses philosophies that the likes of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Rousseau, and Marx have drawn upon to revolutionize the way humankind thinks.

To augment the thoughts of my favorite writers and poets, I write my observations to capture each moment in my life as if it were a photograph. Here I sit in China, where I can pull out my diary to flip through my memories of Turkey, Egypt, or America. It is this sense that I can access the archives of my thoughts that exhilarates me and motivates me to write more and more. Page after page in my diary reminds me of blissful times that I can reference during desolate times.

The more I read, the more I learn to express the inexpressible. As I mentioned in a prior entry titled Goethe & Impressions, "impressions are what I consider to be supernaturally inspired emotions or feelings. The nature of such emotions is that they may be sensual, romantic, daunting, and any other avenue that explores the multifaceted dimensions of human nature." Only one who is adept at understanding human nature is capable to penning such impressions; in my eyes, he who can ascend to this level of understanding may rightly be crowned with the title of a writer. To speak on behalf of humankind is the true challenge, but is also the true accomplishment of the writer. Similar to the anguish of Che Guevara in his Motorcycle Diaries, coming in touch with pain, poverty, and depression of society is one way to write on behalf of those incapable of expressing their emotions. It is through his actions and philosophical writings that Che truly lived and died on behalf of the oppressed, those treated with injustice, and those with no voice to express their plight. These emotions could be extrapolated from the impoverished of the Andes to the suffering of Palestine. Since all men feel the same emotions, truthfully an accurately capturing this emotions on paper is the true obligation of the writer. It is in this spirit that we must understand that the writer cannot completely shut himself out of reality, but rather interact with society. Khalil Gibran perfectly summarizes this notion in a nutshell when stating,"The receiving and giving of pleasure is a need and ecstasy."

I conclude by circumnavigating my thoughts to return to where I started. Why do I write? I write because it is a passion, a need, and a source of delight. I write because I endeavor to voice the hopes of the hopeless. Similar to the knight of knowledge or the warrior of light who puts his sword to the service of justice, I put my pen to paper for the sake of expressing the inexpressible, for the sake of voicing the the emotions for those with no voice. For picking up the pen, I understand the burden of the writer. For "to hold a pen is to be at war" as the esteemed Voltaire would remark. I write because I love life, because I want to record every single minuscule detail about this treasure that God has bestowed us with. I write because I wish to carry on the tradition that my forerunners have so perfectly carried out. I write because I wish to give others the elation that I have experienced by reading the works of others. I write because my writing is the solace of my loneliness. I write because I am a revolutionary and, as Che puts it, the most important quality for a revolutionary to possess is love, love of humanity, of justice and truth. I write to love. I write to be loved. I write to remember my importance, my dignity, and the due respect I owe to others. I write to transcend the mundane, to get closer to the source, to God. I write because it is my passion.

My Library

I've been reading some book reviews on Orhan Pamuk's novels for the past hour or so. While doing so, I crossed one his memoirs of how he took fancy upon literature and writing, which I find that I can definitely relate to. In a Guardian article titled The Collector, Pamuk reminisces on how he put together his own library when he was around my age. What's truly surprising was that when I finished buying a hundred or so used classics I'd been compiling on a list, the store owner mentioned to me, "Looks like you're building a library." Never had I considered that building a library would be one of the prerequisites to becoming a writer like Pamuk. Alright, I'll admit, now I'm being a bit too ambitious. But I recall that subsequent to reading Pamuk's Istanbul: Memories & The City, I was deeply moved by the conclusion whereby he found peace of mind when finding that the profession that his soul was yearning for was to become a writer. I don't think he'd calculated that he'd end up becoming a Nobel Prize winner at that point, but he merely followed his passion.

Another snippet I recall from the couple of words I exchanged with the store owner was that of all the books I purchased that day, he singled out Naguib Mahfouz's Midaq Alley and claimed that it was his favorite. I took pride in saying, "Oh Mahfouz! He's a compatriot of mine." Its not a coincidence that the likes of Pamuk and Mahfouz grew up around libraries. I too have my own story behind building my library. There is something about books and their proximity to me that makes me at ease. Where does this affinity for books stem from?

Well, if there is a main source to which I will attribute my love of books for its my father. Its quite funny how my father will rarely argue about anything but who gets to keep a book in his collection. Even though my family has relocated several times, I recall since my earliest memories that there was always a library in our house, even if just a book shelf. I recall before the family sold the old mansion in Helwan, I would always go there to play what seemed to me like an old deserted, haunted house. There, I would experience my first encounter with a plethora of books from my father's adolescence. I recall some of the first books I came across during those childhood adventures were books about the cold war and a biography of Abraham Lincoln that even though I started reading, found too tedious to complete.

It wasn't that I was given a biography of John Paul Johns, the American revolutionary naval captain, upon my departure from New Delhi that I began to take reading seriously. I recall this was the first book I completed and was so proud of myself. I marked the date of completion inside and celebrated my success...by myself. But this was a new page in my life. Since then, I have always attempted to become a prolific reader. Whether it was going to my grandmother's house across the street in Maadi to browse through the collections of my father's books, where I came across an-almost-complete collection of the Britannica Encyclopedia, travel guides, spiritual and religious books, and every possible genre of books you can imagine. It all seemed to fascinate me. I recall that it was also one of our recreational pastimes to go to the Barnes & Noble near our house in New York City.

Having a father around makes it easy to have access to books, I assume, so when I came to college, I always felt that there was a void that needed to be filled. It wasn't until the beginning of this semester that I realized that was missing was a good collection of books. I have always compiled lists of books that I was keen on purchasing. Whether on random sticky notes, journal pages, emails to myself, I have had such a scattered array of lists of books that I'd intended to purchase. Once, while walking Downtown, I walked into one of the used bookstores, a favorite pastime of mine, and for some strange reason, I found almost all of the books I'd been listing for ages on the same bookshelf ahead of me. To be frank, it seemed quite surreal to me, almost a sign that I needed to scoop them all at once. Considering that they were all used, I found some for a buck a piece. I couldn't resist and scooped up about a hundred books that day.

Obviously I haven't gotten to a fraction of the books this semester, but every time I pass my new friends on the way out of my room, I say to them, Oh what pleasure I well get from devouring each and everyone of you. I've mostly gotten to short stories and poems because that is all my time allows. I've also taking a particular liking for the classical works of the Romanticist movement, i.e. the poetry of Wordsworth, Coleridge, Voltaire and some of the more traditional, oriental works of Omar El Khayem and Jalaludin Rumi. What I value most about this mini-library of mine is the diversity it cultivates. I want to learn everything there is to be leaned, and the more I learn, the more I find out that there is so much more to be learned. Interesting, huh? So I try to diversify my collection to encompass everything from Shakespeare to Lenin, with the focus of having a romantic touch to all the works I collect.

Its interesting, because at one point, book buying becomes an addition and you realize that it will almost be impossible to get to all those books before life's over, but there's something special about bringing back a book home. I feel as its adopting a child that you will actually give care to someday. When my eyes survey the expanse of books that in bookstores, each title pops out at me and contemplate for a second or two what discoveries I could make if I take a minute to leaf from cover to cover, but I know that would lead me to spend days in the bookstores.

What worries me at times though is that these books make me feel a sense of detatchment from reality. Why am I so obsessed with the past? How can my passion to learn about irrelavent emotional and artistic movements help me in any way in becoming a successful engineering student or a better Egyptian citizen who could be of actual use for my country? Is this quest and passion for learning futile then? Sure, these books may fuel the fire that aids me in writing this entry, in expressing my emotions, but how can I ever put this knowledge to practical use that will allow me to achieve my idealist aspirations of "making a difference in the world"? A contrast to springs to mind is that of two great philosophers: Che and Sartre. The former "lived his words and spoke his actions" as the latter would put it, while the latter only philosophized but never actually did anything. I strive to identify with the former, but how?

I think that it is natural, and even healthy to be in such a dilemma at this point in life. I know that as my library grows, so will I and my understanding of the mysteries of life, so what's the rush, I've still got shelves of book to read help me do so.

A Critique Of Modern Arabic Literature

"Art is one instinct of our nature."-Aristotle

Why is our modern literature plagued with satire, criticism, objectivity, and melancholy? That is the question that preoccupied for the past three hours, as I sat my Arabic Fiction final. As my eyes skimmed the works of سعد اللة ونوس، هالة سرحان، غادة السمان، كليوت الخولي, I couldn't help but think to myself that Arabic literature truly mirrors the bottled-up expressions of the Arab people.

In our part of the world, "art for the sake of art" is a notion of complete absurdity. Art, for us, must voice the resentment for the status quo; otherwise, it is rubbish. In my eyes, it defies logic for art to be logical, as ironic as that sounds. Art should be an expression of, or rather sublimation of, the artist's imagination, purely appreciated out of its historical value. Unfortunately, I there to be a void when it comes to this in the Arab world. For us, Art is a tool that serves as propaganda by the government, criticism by the intellectual, or a mere distraction for the masses though mind numbing pop music and soap operas.

This all started with the initiation of الحركة الفنية الملتزمة where art for the sake of art, or for the sake of creativity, romanticism, and impressionism was looked down upon at a time when the State needed to mobilize the nation to recover from النكسة. This saw the likes of Umm Kalthoum, Abdel Halim Hafez, Abdel Wahab, and others divert their attention from singing of the romanticist time period of the Arab World to that of nationalist populism. Unfortunately, individualist spirit that inspired the births of some of the most ingenious art movements, such as Cubism, Surrealism, and Expressionism in the West, was regarded as being apathetic since they failed to sacrifice for the sake of the national struggle. Instead of becoming an outlet for artists to project their natural artistic tendencies, art had to have a meaning.

I might have this impression due to the academic milieu in which this class was set, but even from my readings outside of the class, such as Alaa Al Aswany's Yacoubian Building, that has become world renown, the success that seems to stem from his work is his criticism and bleek depiction of Egypt's society. Would he have enjoyed such success if he had focused on the merits of Egyptian society? Are there even any merits to the Egyptian society that an artists eye to produce a masterpiece from?

To conclude, I am going to go on a tangent, but who deems whether art is popular? Isn't it Western critics? Why have the critical works of Middle Eastern society, such as Orhan Pamuk and Naguib Mahfouz (with all due respect to these eminent writers), reaped Western recognition and the ultimate medal of honor of Western civilization the Nobel Prize? Isn't it because of their appeal to the Western audience of perpetuating the image that the Middle East is in a state of social decadence?

This may be a very pessimistic outlook, and I truly hope that I am wrong on every point I make, but it just seems to me that art fails to serve its true purpose in the Arab world, and that is to abstract the humanistic sentiments, instincts, and imagination from social objectives, propaganda, and entertainment.

It is in this spirit that one can understand Aristotle's philosophy that Art is not only a sixth sense, but a necessity, just as natural as breathing, to ensure human survival.

Augmentation:

I just found this quote by Orhan Pamuk that described Turkey's literary/artistic scene of the past that is representative of the state in which Arabic Literature is still stranded:

"There was little interest in the problem of the individual creative writer who drew from history and tradition, or who went in search of the literary form that best accommodated his voice. Instead, literature was allied to the future: its job was to work hand in hand with the state to build a happy and harmonious society."

Travel & Expectation

"If our lives are dominated by a search for happiness, then perhaps few activities reveal as much about the dynamics of this quest-in all its ardor and paradoxes-than our travels"
-Alain de Botton
As promised to a very special friend who is currently traveling, I will reflect upon experiences traveling as a prelude China excursion this winter. I've always used my diary as a travel log, but for once, I'm going to experiment with travel blogging to track my experiences, feelings, and stream of consciousness when traveling.

I won't go so far as to dub myself a globe-trotter, but I can testify that I've seen a fair share of this world since my youth to say a thing or two about the experiences entailed with traveling. As a child, traveling was a nuisance, being pulled from one corner of the world to the other without my consent, but today, it has become a passion that I yearn for as I sit in my desolate room. I miss the excitement, the anxiety, the joy, and the stress of it all. Although I sit for long hours in my room with the dim light on, I am actually traveling beyond your wildest imagination. My mind takes me from Fiji to Switzerland in a matter of seconds. In lieu of the nomadic lifestyle I once led, I have resorted to books as the cure to my longing to see the world. Whether it's Flaubert's oriental description of the Nile crocodiles, Wordsworth's poetry of the Alps' grandiose scenery, or diary entries about Che's cruises on the Mambo Tango down the Amazon, I devour these experiences with a spirit that makes me hungry to get out there and make my trails in the world.

As a sit in this box I have come to call my world, with Henry Mancini playing smooth jazz as the rain drips outside, all I can do is expect...i.e. expect the next time the wind will blow me off my feet to another continent. From my experiences, this is the first step of travel: expectation. As the dull gray clouds paint the sky, I reminisce on the exotic sunny days of Hainan where all there was to worry about was who would get to the beach volleyball court first. Hainan is the ideal retreat for the mind, soul, and body.
When I reminisce about my stay in Hainan, the subtropical island in the south of China, I conjure images of palm trees on a bright sandy beach set against a magnificent background of misty hills, where coconut juice is the traditional thirst quencher, and the only form of commerce is the sale of peals and sea shells. And the best thing about this jewel was that it was undiscovered by the irksome tourists that seem to infest every natural beauty that exists on this plant. Now don't get me wrong, I am a tourist myself, but I try to avoid being one... I endeavor to experience life as the locals live it. Anyways, before I go on farfetched tangent, let me return to the subject at hand: expectation. When reading about the great voyages of Captain Cook, Ibn Battuta, or even the fictional Robinson Crusue, many expectation to travel is set in motion.
An intriguing conclusion I have come to subsequent to my readings of travel literature in my expectation to actually travel is that there is a stark difference between the imagination and reality that travel entails. Thus far, I have painted a positive image on travel based on my experiences and readings, but to reveal the other side of the story behind expectation may be rather cumbersome. There is the pessimist's view that travel may be an incessant nuisance. The stress of packing, long hours of flying, tedious waits at transit airport terminals, different time zones, jet lag, etc...why bother, when one can stay in one's comfort zone. Moreover, the disappointment of reaching the destination and finding it below one's expectations can all take the toll of detest for travel. In my eye's its a matter of attitude. You make the best of what you've got. I was once told by a foreigner in Egypt that you can paint Cairo with the colors of clamor and chaos or with the colors of beauty and serenity. You are the painter and the strokes of the brush are up to you. The dark side to expectation is that the imagination that it encompasses may deceive the prospective traveler.
Unlike in literature, where travel is fed to you, it is your duty to proactively experience travel. It is easy to experience travel in art, music, and literature because the best elements of the experience are presented to you. Expectation only sheds light on the highlights of travel and omits the boredom. Some may argue that "imagination could provide a more than adequate substitute for the vulgar reality of actual experience," as Des Esseintes discerns, yet I have always resolved that those who have not traveled have not lived life.