Ya Shams!

In Konya my first walk was to visit Shams of Tabriz mosque. Dhur prayer time at 12.57h. I went upstairs after offering salat in the women's room downstairs to avoid walking through the crowd of male worshippers in search of the stairs. Upstairs are two spaces, one above the prayer hall with a curtained fence that prevents view of the mihrab. And another room after that , at the side, with white walls. This room was filled with energy, I could see it . I went inside and there was a woman reading from the Quran to another. I did my Zikr , using my beads, and she touched my arm and started talking to me and told me , she is from Syria. We changed from Turkish to Arabic then , I said " tasharafna " and " Ahlan wa Sahlan" and she was delighted. Then she put her hand on mine and said a prayer and a Quran Surah and read to me from the Quran , and I could feel her energy radiating and flowing through my body. I wondered how lucky I was, whether Shams had made me be here at the same time like this woman to let us share our namaz. 

Prayer

Zayed mosque prayer 

Oh my Lord

Give me water

For thy sun creates thirst

Water be thy mercy

Make me fall like a stone

A smooth shiny stone

 Dropped into thy fountain

 Wash over me with the coolness

Of thy love

Wash off all edges

Grind me , grate me

Until I be one oval rock

Resting in the palm

Of thy great hand

Reflecting the sunlight

Giving coolness 

Amen

Those who do not belong

"So you stand in a long and pretty civilized queue in the post office, thinking, inevitably, about those 50+ human beings killed "by mistake" in their homes in Raqqa, with bombs paid for by Western tax-payers who are trembling in fear of ISIS. Then, about how the West is not so concerned anymore about the dictator still murdering the good people of your country every day, priority is ISIS now, Assad is bad but not a threat to the famous Western Way of Life... your turn is up, the lady asks you if you intend to send the letters Normal or something else... you try to remember what was the term for Registered Mail in German... you fail to remember, she becomes impatient and starts looking around and over your shoulder, you end up surrendering: Normal, bitte... Nur Normal!
She processes your mail, you pay, leave the queue to the next person; what is she, the next person,  thinking about? It cannot possibly be more than 50 people killed... such thoughts do not seem to fit, such thoughts cannot "integrate"."

Written by a Syrian movie director

I spent years reading everything Milan Kundera ever wrote. Then I went through all of John Irving . Then finally decided there is no cure for not belonging .
The first time I felt roots again was when I set foot into Damascus old city. I slept like a log in my hotel with it's half a meter thick walls. Asked what it takes to move in and live there for a while.
Then this happened .
Nothing left other than Rumi's other tavern.
" Einschreiben", Orwa.
This morning I realized , I have forgotten the name of the martyred cousin of my friend . Was it Dr Jamal ( that just came back?) Jaffar ? The pharmacist who died in a shabeeha prison in Homs in about June 2011 after being caught with a video camera and footage of demonstrations ?
I tried to mention him when Rami spoke about Bassel Safadi and how he spoke up. Jamal said :" Once I started speaking my mind and breathing freely, I felt like a bird out of a cage and could not go back ..." Something like that .

I was asked to write for a new Syria website , but not about Raqqa, not about daesh, not about the hostages we never saw again, not about whose bones might be found in that cave of theirs once they are gone ... " because only Westerners worry about that" " Raqqa is not a priority" the editor said .

Another comment by his friend : 

"Orwa never fully arriving is why we're always on our toes, and cannot forget cruelties and injustice. it's what we do. sending you love <3" 

Me: " I think you must be right. Those without a comfort zone don't stop thinking and feeling unsettling things." 

Shams, the dervish

I am someone who can relate to Shams e Tabrizi better than to Rumi.
Rumi is esthetically beautiful and describes the ideal, but Shams is human, the rough unpolished diamond, who expresses the whole range of feeling and thought, who talks wisely and also gets angry and impatient and defiant .
Shams was a rebel while Rumi was from the establishment .
I feel welcomed like by a soulmate and breathe freely when I read Shams.

My prayer

Allah 

Turn me into water

Make me a stone 

Grow me into a tree

Let me reach the sky

To see your light

Amen

Received on laylatul baraat 2017

Angels?

When I pray
When I do my Dua's
Sometimes
There is a presence
Who you are I don't know
Why you watch me I don't know
Your intention
Is unknown to me
But I thank you for your kindness
And for holding me in your arms
Once
In an invisible hug. 

The bleeding heart

I once loved a man who broke my heart . I loved him because I saw his soul. Sensitive, loving , gentle... he was a Kurd. His mother, an Arab. The most handsome man I ever saw, the only time I fell in love at first sight. I was so embarrassed, I took a four hour detour after getting lost trying not to cross his path again, so he would not see blushing, hopelessly besotted me.
He caught me the same night. Sitting in front of his door, as I walked by, no one in sight, so I said hello, and he invited me in and I followed. We drank tea and talked in the yard  til it got very very late and I could not stand the cold any longer. He said, there is a room upstairs where I can stay because I was frightened to go home in the night.
What followed was the most ravishing and the most heartbreaking, painful love story of my life.
What we shared were our wounded souls. Once while we sat in a garden full of pomegranate trees, with vines growing on the roof above our terrace, he started telling me of his grandfather. Who used to make wine and had a garden. Then he died. Now nobody lives on that land, he said. He said, his grandfather went to Mekka, they read him the Quran and then he died. I kept thinking, he must have died from a shot to  the head. And his land maybe disowned and taken away. Or flooded by water. Like the land around the Euphrates now, by Kurds trying to take new land from the Arabs.
I have never forgotten him. And til today I have a wound that never healed and just broke open again, looking at photos of the waters of the Tigris flooding the land of his ancestors.
And the Euphrates flooding the land of my new friends. Never a love story like this again. And yet, wounded souls.
And I am wary. My heart. Still bleeds.

The Gift

I have known for a long time that islamic prayer does something to me that is as mysterious as it is powerful. It started with pouring my heart out at the mosque, finding comfort simply in prostrating and laying my hands and forehead on the carpet and my chest on my knees.
Then one day I found the " carpet" responding to me, filling me with a new love and energy.
Some years later it reached the next level, mystery.
And now I have become this closet Muslim ( and unknown sufi , after joining a tariqa) who surreptitiously performs her prayers and wazifas in coffeeshops and other places when not at the mosque, silently breathing the names of Allah while pretending to be asleep or wearing earphones in lieu of earplugs to provide a simple explanation to people why I am sitting with closed eyes in front of my tablet.
These exercises have become an instrument to transport me into a different space when I am not physically traveling.
Out of here, into a world of tranquility and peace where I breathe out pain and negativity and inhale bliss and serenity. A new switch has been installed in my mind that can be flicked to "off", "discharge unneeded matter" , "maintenance " , " reset" and "charge with more light". Forgive me for using all these electronic metaphors , for the details one needs the experience.
Subhanallah.