Fadi, The boy with the soft brown hair

Fadi, The boy with the soft brown hair

Mr. Mahmood, our English teacher was the main character in my youth. Tall, brown eyes, brown hair, always dressed well, with a big strong moustache under his nose that represented the men at his time. He was a respectful man who always talked of believe, not religious belief, but he always talked about struggle, politics, civil issues and all the stuff that I honestly didn’t understand or even care about at this age. I was his favorite student, and he was my mentor, I always looked up at him.
I remember that one day the school was collecting donations for the kids of Bosnia; a couple of teachers was passing to the classrooms & collected money from the students. We were so young but it was nice that they were trying to teach us to give. Mr. Mahmood was one of the teachers that came to our class. So, I asked him one thing: are those donations going to be delivered to the kids for sure? Yes I was a smart ass since I was a kid. Mr. Mahmood looked at me with shock that I am doubting him & gave me a lecture which I can’t remember about what it was but I remember he was so emotional he had tears in his brown eyes.
One day, our religion teacher didn’t show up, so Mr. Mahmoud replaced him. The religion class was simply a place to read Quran, so the teacher selects a student to start reading a certain part & then we continue this part one after another. The students were all competing to imitate the readers they hear their parents listen too. I did not read at class because I used to be shamed with my reading since I couldn’t pronounce the R in a right way. Mr. Mahmood didn’t know that. So the students were reading one after the other & there was one student left before my turn. But suddenly I heard Mr. Mahmood calling me to read. I turned around at the boy sitting next to me and told Mr. Mahmood: Its fadi’s turn. Mr. Mahmood said: fadi can’t read. I asked: why? His answer came to me: Because he is Christian & not allowed to touch the Quraan.
I used to play with Fadi & his brother a lot, he came to my birthday & I went to his & his mom used to like me & kiss me when she see me.
I replied to him: what is the difference between us & them
Fadi became THEM, I became US, the dominant US
Mr. Mahmood tried to explain in different ways the difference, but being the little smart ass I knew what I wanted him to say, so I asked directly, do they go to heaven too?
Mr. Mahmood never lied,
Fadi was embaressed & crying
I was amazed
Mr. Mahmood was never the mentor I thought he is
Fadi, The boy with the soft brown hair didn’t come to school the 2nd year
I never met him again

MIND

Inside, I could not find my way out
The journey began in some place
Can’t remember when or where
Can we remember the 1st place our life started at?
We all know from the pictures & the stories our families tell us
We know our date of birth & our first actions
But what is our 1st memory of our life?
What was our first dream?
What was our first hope?
Our first joy?
I could not find the way out
The wires where every were around
I could not see them clearly
They were all around
I could not touch them
They were all around
I could not sense them
The wires were all around
When you can see something clearly, you can identify it, locate it & take an action towards how it makes you feel
But when its all around, you can sense it, it diffuses your vision, it eliminates your focus
You are confused
I can see something or someone, still its not clear
You try to focus
To turn the lens around to get better focus
You wish you had an auto focus feature like the new digital cameras
But you don’t
It started somewhere
Long ago
You don’t know what it is, but it doesn’t stop
I walk through the wires
And I realize
Although they are confusing me
They are mine
All mine
It’s the only place I own
No one can tell me what color should they be, or how they are arranged
They are confusing me
I don’t know their color or how they are arranged
But the are mine…and mine alone
And they confuse me
All our wires come from different places
Some are Chinese; some are labeled MADE IN TAIWAN
Mostly they are American European
In Lebanon we like them French
So we make them French, even if they are MADE IN TAIWAN
But they come from different places & from different times
So u cant say my wire is this or that
It’s a collective wire, gathered from unfinished pieces
Our collective memories which constitutes my elastic life
They are not in a sequence
You have one memory or something (call it your 1st memory)
You don’t have 2nd memory that reflects the second day or the second life
Your memories of your conscious life have countries, time gaps years & oceans to cross between them
Your one true life is a sub-product of your life
A collection of distant memories
That combines my one full elastic memory of you
I am special; I can talk about my wires
No one else from the people I know can
I can describe my wires
Everyone knows I have them
They have a smell, a taste & a visual of their wires
They remember how was it when that wire was installed at that moment
I can’t
All I can have from my wires is the feeling I have when I look at them
Not at them
But at the diffusion they create
They can’t see the diffusion and the mess they are creating
But my confusion is mine
All mine
But they wonder, and I wonder


MIND