Angels or demons

When I was a kid, I was at war with my older sister most of the time, okay, all the time. That was my mother's worst nightmare. Now I understand that war better. I wasn't a child who liked to play, not with my sister anyway, I always preferred to be left alone, not to be bothered. For my sister, she must have been told, even before she got to understand the words: you will soon have a sister you can play with, maybe to prevent and counter the sisterly jealousy that is surely to come. Then I came, and to her surprise none of what they told her was true. Her sister doesn't want to play with her. She tried all sorts of tricks to entice me into playing. The more she tried, the more I resisted. I think that I felt the advantage I had over her early on. I wanted nothing from her in fact, I was fine being left alone and she needed me. But deep down, I wanted her to try hard so I can refuse. See? who is that stupid who said kids are angels? They are not. We weren't for sure. It wasn't always a carrot she used, sometimes, she'd use the stick. That was harder to resist and soon she discovered that using force and intimidation to force me to play with her was more successful than begging and making irresistible offers. So I started to play under duress. My sister also hated to lose. So did I: I hated her to lose because there was nothing I wanted more than avoid her fury when she lost. I would give up the thrill of winning for that. Such a competitive and rebellious child I was! But for some reason, luck was always on my side when I needed it the least. In these games, my purpose was to lose playing against both myself and my luck. My sister was not stupid though. She would discover that I am losing on purpose and would ask me to play fair, she wasn't satisfied with winning against a loser but she still wanted to win anyway. So I had another challenge, I had to force myself to lose without her noticing. So I'd make sure to win a few rounds only to lose more later and make it look very challenging to her. I also had to fake sadness and anger when I lost. I win if I lose, that was my secret game. Naturally, sometimes, I would lose without any effort but I became an expert in losing no matter what. I was also the master of deception. These were the peace times though. My mother would see us playing and would be very proud. But at times, war would be declared. This can happen for any reason or for no reason. As I said, that was my mother's nightmare. See? my mother lived in the denial that her kids are in fact angels. When war broke up between her angels, she knew one way to restore peace. My mother believed that love was the cure for everything. She would stop the war by asking us to kiss each other. I played my mother's game the same way I played my sister's. Whatever you say, but after that, just leave me alone. I would kiss my sister with the same indifference I played with her. That wasn't harder anyway. She would sometimes refuse, get harassed by my mom until she kisses me and in her heart vows revenge. The next war wouldn't take long to start.
My sister and I grew up to become very close but looking back I only regret one thing: She hated the chicken I was and her rebellious side was something to admire not to despise.

had to tell you...

I don't miss many things about living with my parents but this feeling has been haunting me here in Amman, of all people there I miss, I have an overwhelming longing for being around my mom and dad and I realized that living with them was not as bad as I had always thought because I always took for granted the energy of love they had filled every room of the house with, every wall and everything their hands touched. But of all people I miss there, and maybe with a slight feeling of guilt I can say even a bit more than my dear 3 year old nephew, I miss them. I miss those Sunday mornings when I walk half asleep to the balcony where my dad, already dressed up and shaved although going nowhere, is helping my mother prepare lunch while having their first sips of coffee, I could see them stuffing zucchini, cabbages, vine leaves, chicken, or anything that can be pierced, with lots of rice and love. I would walk past them without any goodmornings, I would barely lift my hand in Salam and they would smile at my nonchalance before they would mess up their calm morning to serve me like a queen who must be attended to, and I would take advantage, sometimes ignoring and belittling their over care with that arrogant 'leave me alone' look. They would but I could feel their eyes roaming around me for the slightest sign of 'she might need something' and before I reached for my lighter they would bring me the ashtray. I don't tell them how much I love them as often as I want to and I probably won't so here: I love you maybe slightly more than you know.

Mothers' Day

A short drive in the streets of Beirut these days, ahead of Mothers' day, most advertisements send these not so subliminal messages: Mom, there you go: now you can cook, clean, and get fitter.

Blackmail

Lebanese parents, mine included, desperately try to keep their children close. They try all sorts of manipulations. They know your weaknesses and they take advantage. You play the fool. You play the game. My mother's technique: She cooks my favourite food. It works.

Mysterious mom

When I have coffee with my mom, it means something is definitely going wrong, not with her but with me. Maybe wrong is a strong word, unusual let's say. It means that I am in the best of moods. To say yes for coffee with my mom, I have to be in the 'today I will say yes to everything' mood. Coffee, bitter, was almost the only thing we exchanged. I feel I know her too well and at the same time she remains a mystery to me.

My mother

I always hurt her. I never say sorry- she never asks- and she can never hold a grudge. My mother.