I was wearing a red top and grey jeans.

My hair tied back in a ponytail.

I remember exactly what I was wearing, but could not tell you what I felt. My brain had to concentrate hard on external details to prevent me from falling apart entirely.

I kept that top.

I’ve never worn it again.

It’s folded in the limbos of my wardrobe, neatly waiting for me to decide its fate.

I will never throw it away, nor will I ever wear it again. It’ll have to stand the test of time alone, buried in the darkness of my closet.

I feel it’s important to remember what you were wearing when your world ended. How you thought it was going to be a normal day. How you thought you would be able to make it unscathed.

When it happened everything around me just melted away and liquefied. I wasn’t walking or talking or breathing. Swimming would be more like it. Swimming, gasping for air, trying to make sense of basic information.

I cried. Tears to match the sea around me. I felt my sister’s arms around me, trying to tether me to life. That angel whose initial response to her own grief was to reach out to protect me.

And still I wasn’t feeling anything. Not then. Not really.

I drove. I don’t know how. I think I spoke to myself the whole ride, splitting into many trying to keep me just sane enough so I would not drive into a tree. I ate. I don’t know how either. I went to pick up my child from daycare and her teacher thought I either was a monster or the strongest woman that ever lived because I wasn’t crying.

I picked up my child and went home. Took care of her and put her to bed.

Took off the red top. Folded it neatly. Left my heart in its folds. Buried my feelings and myself so deeply within me I am barely able to find them again.

And I kept going.

I was back at work five days later. Tears from colleagues fell on my stone cold silence and ‘I’m okays’. More assumptions of me being a monster. Or demented by grief.

That one was correct.

It wasn’t strength. Or me being a monster. Or having an iron will.

It was self-preservation, my mind mercifully shielding me from the cataclysmic loss I had just endured. Had I felt then, I would have died. I needed to ration that grief. Cut it up into bite sizes I could swallow.

I still can’t swallow properly. There’s something in my throat that just won’t go away.

It’s five years later. I had to look at these feelings. I had to extricate them from within the wall I had buried them in.

It is excruciatingly painful. To pull at that thread and unravel it. To untangle these knots and plant news things in their stead.

It’s a labor of love mostly, and self-love is hard to come by. I am ever so grateful to the hands that came to help, soothe and carry.

For the hands that wiped out the tears, for the arms that held, for the lips that kissed.

It’s been five years.

The top is still folded.

My heart is no longer in it.


My friend Abir seems to be a permanent fixture in my writings. There is so much of her in one of my characters in the Tales of the Phoenix City, she’s been featured in articles I wrote, and here she is again, her name intertwined in my words.

That’s because Abir and I have built and nurtured a feminist friendship that has spanned for over ten years now. A friendship built in the streets of Beirut, around late coffees and meetings at feminist collectives, evenings spent designing infographics on violence against women (she’s good as design I’m good with words we both have a profound contempt for patriarchal violence) a friendship made of love, of understanding, absence of judgement, knowledge that we are there for each other regardless of where we live. A friendship made of honesty, and laughter, and joy (presently mentally adorning these sentences with blue eyes and khamsas to ward off the evil eye, yes I’m superstitious, what can I say, I’m an old woman and unlikely to change).

Lately, Abir’s brain produced the wonderful idea of co-creating Hammam Radio, a participatory feminist radio open to women and girls in all their diversities. If you think Abir’s brain is some next level brilliance, wait till you see her heart. She invited me over to contribute and co-create, along with the multiple wonderfulness that are Rasha, Marwa and Jojo. So far we’ve uploaded a heroic amount of music, have hosted different shows, but mostly had about a ton of fun.

This morning Marwa told us ‘I’ve never heard so many brilliant women in under two weeks’. The brilliant women are everywhere, it’s just that mainstream media is too busy showcasing The Men.

To me, the initiative brought me so much hope and love and joy, scarce feelings in these surreal times. Emotions that I have come to strongly associate with feminist love.

Several disclaimers are needed. From here onward, I’ll be speaking about healthy relationships, bearing in mind that they require constant work and care, and that toxicity can happen in all relationships, romantic or otherwise.

I’ve never been a fan of the (patriarchal, heteronormative) cult around the One and Only Romantic Love Meant to Fulfill All Of Your Needs. First of all, I think it’s incredibly selfish to ask of just the one person to be everything to you all the time. No one can be, nor should be, everything to you all the time always. Secondly, what’s this hierarchy of loves we live in? Society greatly values romantic love, makes a ton of music and movies about it, has special holidays around it, and women and girls especially are raised with the belief that the most important love they’ll ever find is romantic love, and that everything else is just an add-on. Very seldom are we taught that sometimes the ‘home’ you create with a romantic partner can be the most dangerous place for your to be in. Very seldom do we hear the warning that ‘the family’ can be your place of despair, violence and torture.

I fucking hate that.

I believe that there is constellation of forms of love out there, and that they are all equal. That intensity can be felt in relationships that are not necessarily meant to become romantic, that we should tell the people we love that we love them, period, and not just your partners or your family or your dog, but also your friends, especially your friends, and your comrades. I think there should be societal recognition of how crucial and core these relationships are to us, to our mental health and well-being. Kiss your friends more (once we’re out of quarantine), hold on to them, show you trust them and show them that they are not accessories in a play where the main character is your romantic partner.

There are different types of love, the political love you build with comrades (solidarity in struggle is a thing of beauty), the friendships you cherish, the situations you don’t quite have a name for yet (you know the ones, the relationships you can’t and don’t want to categorize), the love you feel for your children, the love you feel for your siblings’ and friends’ children (I’m an auntie, and a proud quasi auntie to many children, and let me tell you, is there anything more delightful than giggling with the offspring of the people you love with very minimal responsibility?), there is an infinity of persons out there that will be tugging at your heart one way or another. Don’t box love to certain types of situations or link it exclusively to certain people. The heart expands to more you let people in.

Among these loves, lies feminist love. The kind of love you build with feminist comrades who become your backbone, like a chain of wonders who prop and hold you up and will break your fall if they need to.  Feminist love makes space for your anger and legitimizes it, but stops you from being consumed by it. Feminist love is fierce, and full, and sincere, and stoked by the logs of struggle, solidarity and recognition. Feminist love has kept my head above water at times where even breathing was painful. Feminist love has taught me how to process grief, it has kept silent so my emotions could roar, it has made noise to drown out the violence and awfulness, it has stood like a wall of steel against the assault of societies that didn’t want us there. Feminist love rejoices in difference, creates invisible indestructible links between the people who form this bond, and above all, feminist love teaches life and courage. The courage to exist as we are, the courage to live our truth, safe in the knowledge that we are surrounded by the love of our chosen family.

To love, and be loved with that kind of deliberate fierceness, is a gift and a privilege beyond measure.

To create a platform where women* raise their voice and share their thoughts and laughter is a gift and a privilege beyond measure.

To retain the ability to love beyond what is socially sanctioned, to make the conscious choice to remain soft in an environment that will do anything to harden you, to choose solidarity and openness and inclusivity, to put one’s trust in the immense power of collective action and struggle, are all gifts and privileges beyond measure, but are also necessities.

Feminist love is needed. I’m happy to extend it to you.