it's your birthday, mom

Hey mom,

It's the 7th of January, 2014. Last time we celebrated together, it was 2001. Kind of crazy, huh? We had organised a surprise party for you, and I guess we all knew it would be your last. You never had big birthday parties as a kid --you always told me how your brother and sister both had birthdays in December, and then there was Christmas, and then New Years, and by the time your birthday came no one really had the energy to do anything, so it was called "eid el tlet baraneet" (the 3-hats party) because the only people there was you and your siblings.

I didn't always have presents for you; mostly drawings or cards or something I made myself. But I always had letters. And I figure I can still do that, write to you on your birthday.

You would've been 59 today. You never wanted us to know that, your real age, and for as long as I can remember you always turned 33 and that's how you'll always remain in my world. You would've been the proud mother of a 20-year-old son who is off to college in Montreal, studying environmental science and in love with sports and nature, just like you. I can imagine you two would have had a hell of a time exploring mountains and discussing global warming. You would've been the proud mother of a 24-year old daughter who is a graphic designer, just like you were, and who could've taught you how to do it all on photoshop (no, they don't use pencils and papers to draw logos anymore...).

I close my eyes, and I imagine I would have taken you out to lunch today, just like I did 13 years ago; and we would have talked about my plans, my wanting to move, the book I'm writing and why I keep getting my heart broken and you would've probably had some tough love in there for me to snap me back into place. Of course, I would've probably spent the entire time talking about me, because that's what kids do, right? Just like I'm doing now. It's your birthday, and all I can do is talk to you about myself.

I will take a moment and say something about you though. I found it in the letter I wrote you that last birthday you were still around. I wrote: "The only thing I can give you today that matters are my words. You will always be my mother. The years go by, things happen that we don't expect, and all the tears we cry wont change anything. So let's look at the world positively, isn't that what you always say?"
 It is what you always said. Even sick, even dying; and I will never forget that.

Happy birthday mom, wherever you are now.

a love letter from the grave

Love letters. Something that seems improbable to get today, in the age of email, sms, whatsapp, audio-notes and skype. Just a mere 60 years ago, it was the only way my grandparents kept in touch in the seven years in between meeting and getting married, when one lived in Beirut and the other in Cairo. Without these letters, I probably wouldn't even be here.

So what's better, in 2013, than getting a love letter, in an envelope, written with ink on a paper? I'll tell you --it's finding a letter that my mother wrote my sister 14 years ago, and realizing that it is timeless. The love of a mother, it seems, can overcome the fact that she passed away almost 13 years ago.

Today, my sister got a new tattoo: she took my mother's words from the letter, in my mother's handwriting, and had them tattooed on her arm. Now if that isn't love...

I translated the letter here because I thought it was beautiful. And because even though my mother didn't write this to me, I feel like she would've wrote me the same thing.


"To my darling daughter
I am your mom! And I always will be. Know that I love you more than anything in the world. And that I am always here for you, for better or for worse, and never, and I mean ever, be afraid to tell me how you feel and what you want. If there is a problem, we resolve it together, and if there is a happy situation then we will be happy together.
I love you and I wish you all the possible happiness in life. I am sure that with your smile and your kindness you will always get what you want...
Well! I hope you're going to fill this diary with happy thoughts and fun adventures...
I love you!

PS: I'm sure there are a lot of spelling mistakes, but I know you understand me..."

the next best thing

Yesterday was mother's day and for the first time in eleven years, I wasn't sad. Of course I miss my mother, like I miss her every day. But I was so much closer to her yesterday than any other year I spent curled up in my corner afraid to look at all those people buying flowers for their mothers. I always thought the only time I would ever enjoy mother's day again would be when I would become a mother. Turns out I just had to change perspectives. 

I woke up drowned in kisses from my Parisian which immediately put a smile on my face. Then I went to the spa to enjoy an hour-long facial something where they put cream after cream on your face and massage your head and all you have to do is lie there and close your eyes and enjoy it --if I can't send my mother to the spa, why don't I just treat myself to it? 

Then I called my sister, and unfortunately, she was not in the same mood as me, so I decided to take her out to lunch. There's this adorable new diner in Mar Mikhael I knew she would love and we stuffed ourselves with burgers and fries and I spotted her smile. If I can't take my mother out to lunch in a place named after the diner in Grease (one of her favorite movies) then taking my sister is the next best thing.

She then took me to a place called Karout, where you buy anything you can think of for very reasonable prices and we spent two hours there buying things for this crazy brunch I'm throwing on Sunday. It was fun because it was the kind of outing I would love to do with my mom and it just so happens that it's also great to do with my sis. When we left, we got sort of lost and had no idea where we were, got stuck in terrible traffic, and I started getting worried that we would never make it on time to visit my mother at the cemetary. And sure enough... three minutes later, we find ourselves across the street from it!

Later that day, we drove up, my brother, my sister and I, to Baadat, where my aunt lives. You see, she lost her husband about three months ago and so we decided together with her 3 daughters that we would do something special for her. We got there before she came back home and prepared a nice dinner for her, put her favorite flowers (Mimosas) all over the house, and waited to surprise her. And when she saw us, she cried of happiness. If I can't celebrate my mother and shower her with dinner and flowers, then I can do it for the only other woman who has known me my whole life and loves me unconditionally.

And now I'm sitting here and writing this and all I can do is smile because I know that through everything I did yesterday, through everything I do every day, I celebrate my mother. I don't need to be sad or cry to miss her. I can just channel it in a positive way. I can enjoy the next best thing.

there's no merit in loving if everything is easy

Some people say my family is cursed. They say we're "like the Keneddy's." That the series of tragedies never end. I guess I can see where they're coming from...  Two cancers, a rare illness called "Harada", a spinal cord injury, a heart attack, five deaths. And every time, we think that's it, this has got to be the last one, we can't possibly deal with any more. But apparently we can.

And so it has crossed my mind at some point too, that our family is indeed, peculiarly unlucky. Actually we were laughing about that on Friday night, the day my aunt buried her husband, and my cousins buried their father. 22 years before, on the very same day, my aunt walked down the aisle in a church in Paris and married the love of her life. This week, in stead of celebrating a love that was still very much alive, she wore a black dress and walked behind his casket in a cemetery.

That night, as we were gathered around her fireplace,surrounded by the pictures of all those we've lost, we all laughed. It might seem odd to still be laughing, on a day where you just buried someone you adored, but there is something about our family that goes beyond the pain we feel again and again. The entire time of the condoleances, my cousin was wearing a little paper boat clipped on her dress. "This one day, my father was crying," she said. "I didn't know what to do or how to stop his pain, so I clipped on this little paper boat on his shirt, and it made him laugh." We need the silly little things to make us smile, even in the worst of times.



What people don't know about our family is that we're actually one of the luckiest. The love that bonds us all so closely together only grows every time another tragedy hits. No one is left alone, not for a second. The other day, I was looking at my father's and my uncle's girlfriends, and I told them "What are you still doing here?" And my aunt joked: "Run! Run for your life!" Run for your life quite literately. But deep down we all know why they haven't run yet.




There is no merit in loving someone when everything is easy. When they are always perfect, and healthy, and kind, and full of qualities. Anyone can love if that's that. But when you go through the flaws, and the years and the pain, when you've seen the ugly, the poor, the sick... that's when you know you love someone all the way. My aunt said even if she knew she would lose her husband 22 years after she got married, she wouldn't have missed a minute of it, she wouldn't have exchanged him for anything. My father said the same thing about my mother. Even I look back and say that although the days when my ex-boyfriend was sick were the hardest, they were the days I loved him the most, and I can still admit that now.


This post is a tribute to Joe.

It's hard to put words together and do him justice, it's hard to write anything at all because none of us want to accept that he's gone. But there's no merit in loving someone if everything is easy.

growin' up

My brother is 18 years old today and this is for him.

When he was born, I was 8 and we had just moved back from Paris to Beirut. It was 1993, still a city covered in the rust of war. We lived at my grandmother's, my little sister and me, and my mom couldn't leave the house because she was nine months pregnant and if the electricity cut off she'd have to walk up three floors.We'd pick up the phone and we'd have to wait patiently for the line to come; the only milk available was powdered Nido and I couldn't even stand the smell of it; and the only thing on TV were the local channels and "Mini Studio" was the only watchable show.

I remember when my mom taught me how to change his diapers and how he peed on her while we were changing him. I remember when she let a flock of his hair grow long at the back of his head. I remember when he was four years old and we teased him on how he had a big penis and he ran all over the house screaming and crying that no, no, he didn't have a big penis. I remember him in his superman costume that he'd wear as pajamas. It was a time when we had a full house, and we'd wake up Sunday morning, my sister, my brother and me and prepare breakfast for our parents. There was still five of us back then, coffee for two, pancakes for all.

Everything is different now. It's like we're on another planet living in a different dimension. The world changed for this little boy when he was seven years old and he lost his mother, but watching him changes my perspective of the world everyday. When she was no longer around, I would put him to bed every night and tell him stories about her so that he would never forget. We'd talk about all sorts of things before he'd go to sleep and once he told me "sometimes my penis wakes up before me" --and I thought it was the cutest and funniest way anyone has ever put it. It was at that time that we came up with Papadopoulos together, an inside joke that only a few will get. When I left for New York, he was still a little boy. Over the phone I would hear his voice change and barely recognized him when he picked up, and every time I would visit, I'd find him taller, with little hair starting to grow on his face. By the time I came back he was a fully grown teenager. He'd receive dozens of texts a day from a dozen different girls, all crazy in love with him. He is that guy, you see, the ones all the girls are in love with.

And today he's almost a man. The world he was born into --it doesn't exist anymore. What we've learnt along the way is that nothing is predictable and anything can happen. But what always remains, throughout, is the love that you can only share with your siblings. And when your brother tells you you're "the woman of my life," you know you've done something right.

dear mom,

I remember looking forward to this day. A few days after you were gone, I thought to myself, I can’t wait for it to be ten years from now, because it wont hurt as much anymore. And in some ways, it doesn't. It’s hard to admit, but we do get used to everything in the end, even not having the people we love most in the world around us. But I think about you every single day.

It was ten years ago, the last time I saw you. I’m not sure I remember your voice anymore, I don’t think I remember your smell. And I know it doesn’t really matter, but the thing is, it does. When I watch a video of you and you say something, I find myself surprised, not recognizing your voice.

I’m sending you this letter out in the open, over the airwaves, through a blog. It would’ve been really funny trying to explain to you what a blog is, just like I spent two days teaching you how to send an email. It’s not because I want to share this personal moment with the world. It’s because I want the world to know who you were. Who you are still. I didn’t understand it back then, I couldn’t understand what you were going through. I was so young even though I thought I was so grown up and already knew the world… I knew nothing, and I was selfish, because even when you were the one who was dying from three tumors growing relentlessly in your head, in your lungs, in your liver, I still thought about my own suffering more than I thought about yours. I couldn’t understand how scared you must’ve been, to know you were dying. How alone you must’ve felt. How terrifying it must be to know you will not see your children grow up. That your son who was only seven, might not remember you.

I once asked you if you were scared. You said “I’m scared for you.” Because that's who you are. And I still learn from it, every day.

You’re the kind of wife, who when doctors told had a life threatening disease, your first instinct was to turn to your husband and ask if he was okay. You’re the kind of mother who asked me if you could remove your wig, because it was itching you, but you wanted to make sure it didn’t bother me to see you without hair. You’re the kind of woman who consciously opted for no chemo, so that instead of living an extra few months but being sick all the time, you would live a little less, but be able to enjoy it with us. The kind of mother who has the courage to put her children around a table and tell them that she may not always be physically present, but that she would always, always be around us, no matter what.

And the truth is, even though my faith has gone up and down and sideways in the last few years, that I barely believe there is anything out there, that I am as skeptical as they get, I have no doubt that you are around me somehow. Your words, they resonate in my mind as if it was just yesterday that you said them to me. Everything you taught me, I use in ways I could have never imagined. And I try my best to pass them on to Soraya and Karim, because they weren’t as lucky as me, they didn’t have as much time. But even though they had you for so little, you left your mark on them too. I look at Karim and I see you in his eyes. I look at Soraya and I see you in her smile. Your three children have your name tattooed on their bodies --because we take you everywhere we go.

There are days where not having you here is torturous. Yes, it’s true, I miss you like hell when it’s Christmas morning and you’re not there. You were the only person I thought about the day I graduated from Columbia. And it kills me to know that you will not be there the day we get married, or the day we become parents. But I would give up all these days, gladly, if I could have you on all the other days. The days when I’m sick and I feel like crap and I want you to be there so you can hold me and nurse be back to health. The days I’m in total quarter-life crisis mode, and I am dying to talk to you about it. The days I screw up. The days I’m scared. The days I fall in love and the days I get my heart broken. The days I look at Soraya and Karim and I don’t know how give them enough love from you and me. And mostly, the days I’m happy, and all I wish is for you to be part of that happiness.

But I haven't shared any of that with you in ten years. The last time I saw you, in that moment, in that hospital bed, I thought you were already gone. I looked at you in so much pain, and all I wanted was for you to be at peace. I held your hand, I told you I loved you, but I truly thought I was saying it more for me than for you. I thought you couldn't hear me, but I was wrong. Even at your worst suffering, in your dying moment, you found a way to come back to the surface, and to give me one more proof of unwavering love. I will never forget how you suddenly came back to your body and reached out for me, consciously grabbed my hand, even though you had not an ounce of energy left in you, you put it on your heart and I could feel every beat. I’m still alive, is what you trying to tell me. I love you too. Even though you couldn’t say it, you found a way to make sure I knew. The love you gave me was so big, so strong, it has kept me going for the last ten years. Even in your death, you know how to make me feel better. Because that’s who you are.

And yes, I want the whole world to know how proud I am to be your daughter. That I have a mother, who despite the distance between heaven and earth, still manages to help me through the day. I’m so grateful for you, and all I can hope for is that wherever you are, I can make you proud. But I miss you so much and no matter how many words I write today, I’ll never be able to convey it.

I love you.

If she was here today

Every year this beautiful day that celebrates all the wonderful mothers comes as a bittersweet sting for some of us. Those of us who don't have a mother to celebrate, it reminds us of what we're missing --even though we miss it every day, somehow, on those days, it aches more.

It's mother's day and I can't possible not pause and mention my mother. She may not be here today but if she was, I would've celebrated her just like you. If she was here, this morning, my brother would've walked in her room to give her a kiss before he went to school. My sister and I would've made her breakfast in bed, like when we were little, just to remind her that we still love her and need her as much as when we were seven. Maybe even more. We would've made her coffee, black I think... but I can't remember how she took her coffee, and that breaks my heart.

If she was here today, I would've written her a letter, enclosed in a funny Peanut greeting-card, because those were her favorite. It would say she was the best mother in the world, because we all think our mothers are the best in the world and we're all right, they are for us. And I'm sure your mother is special in her own way, but to me, my mother was the most special of all. When I was a little girl, maybe six years-old, my grandmother told me that one day, my mother would be my best-friend. I remember this distinctly because I laughed and said "no way." But it was true. And it didn't take that long. And it was at the peak when you're supposed to be rebellious and go through that phase when you hate your mom or something and I have no clue what that phase is because my mom was my best-friend and not in a loser-I-don't-have-any-friends kind of way... She had this magical power that made it impossible for me to lie to her, the way any normal teenager should. I tried once, and I have a witness --my friend Rebellious, of course, who was a professional mom-liar. I told her I was sleeping over at a friend's when in fact I wanted to go clubbing --I was 14 I think. She believed me, but I couldn't live with myself for more than ten minutes. I went back and told her I lied. And I had a lot more fun knowing I went with her blessing.

If she was here today, I would've gotten her a nice bouquet of colorful tulips. I got a white bouquet and they're in a vase next to her picture. That's what we have now, her face in a frame, immortal, present, beautiful, unwavering. If she was here, I would go lie next to her in bed, put my head on her chest and ask her to stroke my head, just to feel like a little girl again, protected by her mother. If she was here, that's all I would want.

They say you don't know what you have until you lose it. I knew what I had and when I lost it, I knew nothing would ever replace that void she left. And even I am celebrating my mother today, here or not here. That's the thing about wonderful mothers... even when they haven't been around for ten years, you still hear their advice resonating in your head; you still feel their love getting you through the bad days; and you still think about them every single day.

Happy mother's day, mothers.

"listen to your mother"

"and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again."
Caliban, The Tempest, William Shakespeare


I stayed up all night to watch the Oscars live until almost 7 am. It's kind of a tradition that I've created for myself since I was thirteen years old --no matter what, every year, I watch the show live. It may seem futile to you --I could watch the replay at a decent hour the next day, and not be at work downing coffee after coffee on  Monday morning, having only slept two hours. But to me, watching the Oscars is more than finding out who won Best Picture. The truth is, when I first started my tradition, watching was all about the dream to be a part of it one day. I would sit and smile and visualize myself walking down that red carpet in a signee-something gown, embracing Tom Hanks and having a laugh with Nicole and Sandra, giggling at the joke some reporter made. I'd rehearse my acceptance speech in the shower, varying it a little from time to time, switching from funny to emotional or mixing up both. Eh. I wanted to be one of those people who dream big and actually make it.
A lot of girls dream about being an actress when they grow up. Maybe you dreamed of being a singer, a dancer, a football player; and maybe you're not surprised that it didn't happen.
Now I watch the Academy Awards, and it's a reminder of what I didn't do. I look at the young and upcoming stars on red-carpet, the Hailees and Jennifers who are nominated on their first time around, and I remember that I never even tried --that I gave up before giving myself the chance. I remember what I once was: ambitious, motivated, hungry.
And now I realize that I sound like I'm 80 years old and my life is behind me. But I'm not. I'm 25.
One of last night's winners, David Seidler, who won best original screenplay for The King's Speech, is 73 years old. In his speech he laughed it off and said his "father said he would be a late bloomer." So we never know... Maybe I'll surprise myself at age 70 and be up there after all.
But my favorite part of the show last night was something director Tom Hooper said when he won. He told the story of how his mother went to a stage version reading of The King's Speech, came back and told him she found his next film. "The moral of the story is: listen to your mother."
Yes, I'm a sucker for mother tributes and such. And this made me think that maybe every time I feel lost and dwell in the misery of my quarter life crisis, I should listen to my own mother. Problem is, she died three weeks before my 16th birthday. But a lot of the times, I forget that she left me a really important, and quite specific message. On that first birthday she missed, my father presented me with a gift, from her. He said she had them run around the city for weeks trying to find the one she had in mind: it was a beautiful silver quill and ink set. And her message to me was: never stop writing.