It’s been six months since I made the transition from my father’s daughter to his roommate. Well, I’m actually somewhere in the middle. Not quite daughter enough to get the clean version of the joke his buddy told him, but totally daughter enough to do his laundry. Being that my mother is in the States and it’s just … Continue reading
“I rarely cry at funerals.” This was the first line of my last post. Since, it’s been a week filled with funerals – the same topic I (somewhat sarcastically) addressed. Divine intervention has always been quickly dispensed upon me; the Good Lord never wastes any time teaching me a lesson. Alhamdulilah. ____________________________ Sunday, March 1 … Continue reading
In my family, I was the lucky one; I had the easy name – Sara. People asked me which way I preferred my name to be pronounced, not how to pronounce it. Four letters that helped you fit in, both in English and Arabic. My last name was somewhat tricky to foreign tongues, but still … Continue reading
* “Hanz! Bring the Arabic book!” This is the phrase my father uses to describe what it was like getting his children to learn Arabic. Specifically: Going over Arabic lessons with you was much like a torture scene out of a Nazi movie, “Hanz! Kitab al3arabi!” While my brain has opted to spare me of … Continue reading
*3amma: father’s sister. I have a niece. I know, it’s crazy. I shouldn’t be trusted around kids, mostly because I’m more afraid of them than they are of me, and that might be a problem if something happens that requires me to, you know, handle them. When she was a (smaller) baby, I talked to … Continue reading
Ibrahim El-Salahi is a world renowned artist who is virtually unknown in his own country. What a shame. This week, I had the pleasure of attending a special event commemorating the launch of his autobiography, A Fistful of Sand. I wouldn’t have known about it had it not been for my mother, who was his … Continue reading
I shook my head as i watched my father give in to his inquisitive urges, “where are you from? Ghana?” he asked the cashier at Carl’s Jr. “Ivory Coast”, the man replied. He was short, kind-faced, looked to be in his thirties. “Where are you from?” he asked. “Sudan”, my father replied. “Aah, le Soudan…. … Continue reading
