5O Gates of Wisdom (rough draft)

Sometimes we are ready with the answer. It is just the question that never comes!

On Mother Day I called my mom. I was very excited because I haven't called her in a very long time, thanks to school! This time however, I wanted to give my mom a special gift. Since her birthday was really close I decided to sing to her something nice on the phone! I remember sitting on my three-leg chair trying to sing the bloody Happy Birthday song and knowing that I wasn't singing, I was whining like a cat ran by a car. It was so far beyond bad that I didn't feel nervous. It must be like when you're in the war, and you know you're going to die anyway. About halfway through, I totally gave up and I just stopped. "Thanks God!" My mom finally declared. "Mom…," I coughed. "Look! I made my decision and I'm….I'm going to Palestine!" I muttered. There was a long pause after which my mom said: "Why do you always RUIN any special occasions we have! Huh?"

Long time ago, when my father was in his 50's, he always used to tell me about how life is like a big castle full of gates which we pass through to obtain knowledge and wisdom. Every time we spend a year in our life time, we pass through a gate of wisdom. And I believed him. Thus, I was full of energy and potential. And I had many big dreams waiting to be fulfilled.

Before I travel to Egypt while I was seventeen, I established with my teacher and a few number of students, in MALI English institute, an anti-discrimination club which was concerned with the Akhdam (or servants) of Yemen and their shanty towns. For me, that was a dream which just came true. Yet for a reason or another, most of my friends thought my club was hilarious, while my parents thought that my club was crazy and my siblings just didn't care! Although I expected such reactions, I expected that my club would even survive for some time. However, the club was doomed to failure only three months after it was established. And despite I lost everything, I guess I didn't learn my lesson…

Three years after that I came to Egypt, I met Hanna, a Swedish newcomer in my university. And we became good friends. Hanna would always tell me about her dream and passion to visit Palestine because of her Palestinian friends whom she was influenced by while she was in the States. When Hanna would ask me about Israel, I would say that I am a pro-Palestine. Yet I love Ofra Haza to death and my father has Yemenite roots. I always remember my mother yelling at me: "you and your Jewish ancestors, damn you!", whenever I would do something wrong. So, maybe I hate Israel because my mother taught me to hate Jews or maybe because Israel is just evil like what the guy in Goma'a prayer says! Right?!

In a university like mine, when many of the students are either Westernized or materialistic featherheaded and sometimes both, I usually join extra-curricular activities to kill time. This semester, I ended up with Hanna in an international organization called STAR (Student Action for Refugees) where we teach English for refugees. There, I had my first encounter with refugees from Iraq, Palestine, and different parts of Africa. One of the glorious moments I've ever had in STAR was when an old female refugee said "Please, help me teacher!" on my second class. That time was the first time I hear someone call me a "teacher". And literally, my hearing just switched off and I couldn't hear the rest of her question! Now, realizing that I am a teacher every single time I go to my class, I feel like I have another chance to influence, touch, or change twenty five students life (Yes, you cynics who believe that crazy poor Ibrahim can't even boil an egg, a teacher now, do you hear?!!) …

Recently, I have also joined Debakh dancing sessions operated by a Palestinian club in our university, known as Al-Quds Club. Despite being clumsy, I, somehow, managed some dancing right. But what is mesmerizing about this experience is that we would always have Palestinians and people from different races who share the same passion for Palestine. On beautiful Palestinian music, hand in hand, we dance until we get feet blisters, or at least me. And this is another incredible feeling I have been blessed to experience…

After joining Debkah dancing, I started educating myself about the situation in Palestine: How people live in camps and all that. Then, I remembered how my parents used to talk about Palestine and hideously compare me and my brothers, the bad ones, to the brave Palestinian teens, the good ones. I remembered how my elder brothers used to discuss the Palestinian-Israeli conflict enthusiastically in their Qat sessions asking me about my opinion and criticizing it all the time. Yet something neither my parents nor my siblings thought of which is DOING something rather than TALKING.

"No, mom, I'm not ruining your birthday!" I brusted "I just want you to be proud of me. After all, I'm not going to bomb myself! My university is arranging a trip in the Spring Break to Palestine and I want to take advantage of that. I'm just going to teach English and help in refugee camps…those people need help…" I said to my mother over the phone. "Do whatever you want but your father won't be happy about this," my mother replied. "I know…I know! Tell dad that I'll travel to…to... Jordon! And I would need him to send me some cash...because I'm running short…" I pleaded. "No," my mom declared "I'm not going to lie!"

I was sure that my father would decline my request anyway and he did. In fact, he refused to talk to me and there was no hope to convince him whatsoever. I felt sorry for myself and my father, who passed more than fifty gates of wisdom. If the majority of Arab youth only care about their clothing, cell phones, and relationships, then at least a few of us are willing to do something. But no one is willing to give us the chance. As an Arab I feel ashamed that a Swedish girl like Hanna is going to travel during my Spring Break to help my brothers and sisters in Palestine while I'm typing this article to complain about how hopeless one person can be...

I can see that my father is scared of losing me but to die or not to die is something in God's hand. If my father taught me to pray, fast, and act as a proper Muslim, he should be proud of me pursuing my dream and doing the optimum thing that a Muslim can do: Jihad. I think Jihad is not only by killing people. I think if I know that I might end up bombed (!), but I'll take my chances to help some Arab brothers and sisters out anyway…this is Jihad…