Cinnamon Zone

So finally it’s Election Day. It wasn’t until recently that that I did some serious thinking and decided I should vote. Yet, I had no clear idea whom I was voting for. Every time I decide to vote for someone they turn out to be in another precinct. As for the ones in my district I didn’t know any of them, except for an old friend of my mother’s and a relative of a friend. Yet, I didn’t feel like voting for them because I didn’t want to feel guilty for voting for someone “I know” while I really didn’t. So, I decided that I’d cross that bridge when I came to it, no need to rush.

So, as I approached the entrance, I started to worry about how “smooth” this will be. There was a crowd of girls and women gathered in front of the gate, so I thought I would have to wait sometime before entering. But it turned out that it was much ado about nothing. All of them seemed to be supporters of different candidates so they waited at the gate handing out pictures and brochures of their respective candidates. I was given some myself, read some of what was written on one of them and then decided I was still going to vote for the woman I saw earlier.

As I mentioned earlier, it all went very smooth, way better than I’d imagined. There were people to guide you all the way to the ballot box and all. So, when I finally got there, I handed over my ID, not knowing what was about to happen to it. I even asked them if I could take pictures for the polling hall but they said it wasn’t allowed.  I filled my ballot and inserted it in the box, then I turned to take my ID back and OH MY GOD! What have they done to you my dear Identification Document! 4 years ago in the previous parliamentary elections I had my ID tattooed with a star as to say I had already voted. Now, the poor thing was mutilated.

That was it! I left the room in awe over the deformed ID, so I fished the camera out of my bag and took a picture of it. Seems like it wasn’t a very wise thing to do, because a policeman stopped me saying: “What is this? What are you doing with this camera?” And he said it in a way that made my heart sink within me. “Oh no! They are not going to confiscate my camera!” I told him I was picturing my ID and that I was already running out of battery. He was a nice guy anyway and told me to hide it so they wouldn’t take it at the gate.

So, that pretty much was it. It didn’t take so much as 15 minutes, and although I don’t think my candidate will win but I had to admit I basically did this for me. I didn’t want to feel guilty for being passive, negative or politically alienated. Anyway, I hope something good will come out of this. I don't want to have my ID mutilated in vain.

I don’t remember when was the first time someone pointed out that my name sounded funny. That is to say, many times when I mentioned my full name (first, middle and surname) it would draw a smile on someone’s face, and sometimes they would repeat it as if to feel how it articulates. “3ola 3ali 3laiwat”. I would laugh too and joke about it, but as time passed, instead of growing used to it, I found the sound of it more ridiculous everyday.

Many times I’ve tried to conceal that “dull” sound pattern, no matter how pointless that might have been. Sometimes I would unnecessarily mention my granfather’s name, Ahmad, to break the sequence of the “ʡl”. Sometimes when I’m asked about my name I would cut it short to my first name, and wait to see if I’m asked for the rest.

Probably it wasn’t before my sophomore year when I saw the rhythm in it. One novel lecture as the professor read the name roll, she stopped suddenly to say: “Who is 3ola 3ali 3laiwat?” And I was like: “Hmmmm, it’s me, so…?” And there she set the record straight for me. She looked at me and said in her own reflective way:

- “Do you know that your name is poetic?”

- “Yeah right!”

- No, really! It has something called alliteration in poetry

Now, I have studied alliteration before but it never occurred to me, as far as I can remember, that the odd sound pattern in my name actually an example of that poetic technique. Perhaps this made me admire Dr. Hanan Ibrahim who pointed that out more and more. And although later on that semester she kicked me out of class, I still consider her one of my favorite professors.

Away from poetry and alliteration, there’s another problem with my name, my family name to be precise, that not only I suffer from, but the descendants of the Eliwat family tree in general.

Some people seem to find the name hard or perplexing or whatsoever. The point is, whatever the reason was behind this, some people seem to find names like: 3elwan, 3laiwan or even 3laiwy more practical. It’s pretty funny actually, and the recurring incidents provide good joking material between family members. One of my cousins even created a group on Facebook for the family in which she made a point of stressing this problem…

Many times I've prided myself on the fact that I have a good memory for remembering things and people from my early childhood. Particularly people

I remember Aisha, the small girl with curly brown hair whose face is a blur now. I remember how once we had this bag of chips that we opened upside down, then one of the "elder" boys told us we should've opened it from the other side and offered to do it for us. So, we ended up with a bag of chips opened from both sides, going around the school yard trying to keep the chips from falling.

I remember Maram, one of my best friends since KG2 until the second grade. She had a full-moon face and short straight black hair that, along with her chubby cheeks made her look like a little cute mushroom. I still have my diary notebook, of course in those days we misunderstood the concept of a diary book, we thought people should write on it for you. We called it "daftar Zekra" (Memories notebook). I was kind of disappointed when I saw her few years ago and she couldn't remember me. I felt like I want to show her what she wrote for me as an evidence. It was pretty funny actually, it goes like:

اشتقت إليكي، متى ستأتين؟ هل السبت أم الأحد أم الإثنين أم الثلاثاء أم الأربعاء أم الخميس أم الجمعة؟

I also remember the twins, Hala and Saba. I was probably the only one who could tell them from each other. I could do it just by looking at them. Yet, I couldn't tell those 2 boys from each other, Naseem and Wessam. They weren't twins, not even brothers, they were like best friends, always sitting to each other, their names sounded a bit similar and they even looked like each other to me.

I also remember Batool. My clearest memory of her is when she said: "Mish 3ayzaha." I thought she had a weird accent.

I also remember Mansour, the skinny guy who once wrote my name on the board as على

I remember Lina, but this one needs a post of her own.

I also remember Imad, the redhead boy who was probably the nicest guy in the class. In fact, looking back now, I think he was somehow mature for his age. I remember how once my tools fell from my pencil case and scattered onto the ground. Some other boys were like: Yeeeeeeeh! But he was the only one who rushed to help me and said: Instead of saying this, come on and help her. Impressive!

I also remember Orouba, who was my best friend for one year. She was very fond of King Hussein and talked about him all the time. She said she loved him more than her parents because, as she put it, if you ask your mother for 1 JD, she'll give you one JD, but if you ask the king for 1 JD, he'll give you 1000 JDs. I don't remember if I found that plausible, because my mind was occupied with the idea that my mother wouldn't give me 1 JD when I was at that age. My daily allowance was 15 piasters, you do the math.

I also remember Hiba the blonde, Hiyam the brilliant painter and the tiwns Hind and Mohannad. Yet, the only person I can't recall in anyway is Jansait.

From what they told me, Jansait was one year older than me and we were friends. We used to play in the school patio by the swings. My sister first tried to remind me of her when I was in the fourth or third grade, meaning one or two years after. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't remember her. Few years later in the sixth grade, when I somehow started to believe it was an illusion, my friend Mai told me that Jansait says hi. I pretended I had no trouble remembering her, but I really couldn't remember anything.

It's strange how selective memory can b, which makes me reconsider the thought. It may be hard to tell if you have a good memory or not, because you can tell what you remember, but you can never know what you've forgotten.

So the other day I went out with some friends from work, it was one hilarious evening with some maliciously good food, junk food that is, nothing fancy. However, one of them wasn’t that much into this kind of food so she picked up some pastry on her way. By the time we all arrived, her food was already cold. So, she suggested that the only guy who was with us would go and ask someone is one of the restaurants to heat it up for her. Everyone was like: Give me a break! Do you want us to make a fool out of ourselves? So, after some failed attempts she gave up and grabbed a piece of her cold pastry.

Mean while, I was staring at her and at her cold food. In a matter of seconds, I held some hectic mental negotiations, some sort of an inner conflict. What would happen if I tried to get her food heated up for her? It seems embarrassing, but is it really? Then, as I figured out later, my subconscious mind came into play, and what I learned from Stephen Covey’s book about being principle-centered, and how people-centered individuals get embarrassed easily. Am I people-centered?  I really hate to think so! So, I had to prove it to myself. 

The next thing I knew, I grabbed her plate and got up from the table. “What the heck! Give me this.” Everyone looked at me with a puzzled look as I made my way between tables holding a plate of pastry. I went to one of the restaurants and explained the situation to the guys working there (Although I think I shouldn’t have, I need more training) And as I expected, they were very nice and even heated up in the oven instead of the microwave so it stays juicy.

I’m not gonna lie and say I did this because I’m too good and perfect to let my friend have her food cold. In fact, I’m gonna admit that my objective was purely ego-centric. I was challenging myself. Would I be principle-centered enough as to care less for supposedly embarrassing myself?

So, I was proud of myself, and Tubby was proud of me too! He kept pushing me until I did it. I’m loving Tubby these days, he’s making me feel very good about myself. Hope his schizophrenia won’t catch up with him for some while.

You may laugh if you want, but I really wish I can send this to Stephen Covey to thank him for the positive continuous effect his book is having on me. Eh, maybe someday…

Case in point is the less than curious incident that took place few years ago. Doesn’t really matter how many years, it might only make it more embarrassing.

It was such a perfect summer evening, so serene, so fresh, and above all, so boring. I couldn’t sleep, or just didn’t feel like it. My brother too, apparently, wasn’t particularly drowsy. We sat in the guest room, which is technically the living room (I don’t know why I keep mentioning this) gibbering about this and that. There was nothing unusual. And you know how when there’s nothing unusual you go out of your way to take the most trivial, constantly recurring, usual, boring, dull of things, and turn it into a premeditated crime.

So as we chatted the dull minutes away, something creepy that way came. Or did it? We heard the clacking sound of keys coming from outside, and more precisely, from our neighbors’ porch, which was right beneath our window.

A robber? That was very likely to think, if our neighbor wasn’t a doctor accustomed to working late. Yet, we chose to brush our senses aside for the moment.  The next thing we knew, we were staring dubiously at each other, wondering who the late night visitor might be. As I look back now, I have the feeling that we both knew in some lower layer of our conscious mind that it was our doctor neighbor. Everything in the universe supported that fact. Yet, we didn’t need to be sure. A little suspense wouldn’t harm, or would it? Well, maybe when combined with some self-inflicted brainlessness.

As I mentioned, the porch was directly beneath our window, in a way that doesn’t allow you to see the door unless you bend out like 180 degree. But make no mistake; we were willing to quench our curiosity whatever it took.

We headed to the window, my brother got on the sofa, opened the window and leaned outside to see what was going on, still he couldn’t see anything. In a desperate effort to see who was standing at the front door, he leaned out of the window more so almost the entire upper half of his body was hanging in the air, and then it happened. As he was standing on the sofa, with most of his body weight enjoying the fresh air, and even it wasn’t that much of weight, the sofa lost its balance, and in a fraction of a second the biggest part of his body was hanging loose in the air. It all happened in a flicker of a moment, his hands were waving in the air, the hard stone porch gazing at him from beneath, and as I learned few years later, even though it was less than second or too, but he managed to think. Well, I said he managed to think, what he thought about was a different story.

Since his thinking system was already shut down in order to put him in that situation, the only thing he could think of was this: “There’s nothing I can do, I’ll only succumb to gravity and wait till my feet reach the edge of the window, maybe they will hook to it and I’ll be spared.”

I’m serious.

Then, seeing that my brain too was hibernating, my survival instincts kicked in, and I grabbed him by the ankle, fixing him on the sofa just like the twins will fix the flag on Everest (in sha’a Allah!) so the sofa retained its balance, and he went back in, incredulous and gasping for air.

Now, if you still can’t see how stupid this was, let me give you the picture perfect.

1- As mentioned above, our neighbor was a doctor. He worked late and took on night shifts frequently.

2- What thief in his right mind would try to break into a house that overlooks the street in a relatively friendly neighborhood from the front door, let alone using keys and making all that noise.

Now, that was a lesson to learn, and, elhamdu lellah, we were spared the consequences this time, and as you may know, unfinished tragedies turn instantly into farces. As we reminisced this, we imagined how it would’ve been if he actually fell down the window onto the porch. And how our neighbor, who was peacefully coming home from work would feel when he turns around to see someone with a broken neck at his front door. We imagined that inspector gadget (that being my brother) would get up to his feet, shake dust of his shoulders and say: “What a lovely night!”

Moral of the story: If you enjoy insanity, don’t live in the same building as a doctor.

Peace.