In a city of 22 million he lays his head on the dusty mattress and pokes the cotton tickling his face pushing it back inside, with provision, annoyed it passed through the spring board and invaded his resting space. Somewhere a few kilometers west, I look at my face in the mirror, matter-of-factly, trying not to judge my own self, brush my hair and lay my head on a pillow, totally aware of the stark contrast millions of others are living in, gutters at their feet and hands clutched out of habit, like the beggar holding his treasure chest. Alhamdulilah, thank God for every blessing, I mutter to myself, convinced I’m down-to-earth because of this.
What makes life so accessible to a woman-with four sisters! And a father interested in politics? I ask myself many questions while writing this, recalling news flashes and real-life moments of the Arab Spring like movie scenes now and then.
Two thousand fourteen was a year of great change for me personally and a series of bad dreams for those who paid attention to their TV screens and had the humanity to feel empathy towards victims of war and poverty.
—————- Two thousand fifteen please be good to us-we need less death and more smiling teens. Respectable queens strong and able, not coming apart at the seams.