Al-shaab yurid isqat an-nizam

Voices in unison chant and ring out into the air of the Square; strong, determined voices that reverberate with pride off the concrete of office buildings, minarets and steeples. Voices chanting from every direction. The infamous words in incessant refrain: “Al-shaab yurid isqat an-nizam!“ - the People demand an end to the regime.

We had thought, with the wide-eyed foolishness of Arab Spring revolutionaries, that with the end of Mubarak’s reign those words would no longer need to be uttered by hundreds of thousands in unison, that the bloodshed and tyranny would end, that dignity would be restored and that all would become free. But realities, like blazing meteorites from an all too familiar space, came crashing down on every dream we held up to the sky since that glorious day in February of 2011. Since that day, every Egyptian revolutionary confronted each of the country’s demons one by one: an omnipresent and omnipotent army, tenacious to its relentless hold of the country and unapologetic for its calculated ruthlessness; a brainwashed population, initially refusing to the see the sinister undertones of political Islam and unsympathetic to the plight of minorities; the crippling weight of dysfunctional bureaucracy; and a state of petrified paralysis that infected all arms of government .

So when our scruffy, bearded knight in holy armor took office in June of 2012, vowing to uphold the principles of the revolution and to ensure that Egypt, going forward, was to be a democratic and inclusive society, we all wanted to desperately to believe him. And though I detest political Islam in its modern forms and always doubted his sincerity, I found myself at times sneaking a smile at his diplomatic coups. After all, he stood up to Iran and Syria. He respected the treaty with Israel. He reached out to China and the United States. He even brokered a ceasefire between Hamas and Israel. Time magazine could be forgiven for nominating him as their “Person of the Year”.

But in the end it seems it was Morsy who was truly wide-eyed and foolish. A day after brokering a cease-fire between Gaza and Israel, Morsy sought to consolidate his newfound esteem in one sweeping constitutional declaration pronouncing his office an incontrovertible source of law.

No sir, as you may have figured out by the ocean of people in Cairo’s biggest and most iconic square today, we will not watch as you turn back the clock on our dreams. We may be battered and bruised, but we are certainly not done. Meteorites enter the earth’s atmosphere every day, but you should know that at best they eventually end up cold stone buried beneath our feet.

Be part of the dream, retract the declaration now.

Mohamed Mahmoud Street

Mohamed Mahmoud Street never was what you would call an ordinary street. Even amidst the surreal jumble of the old and glorious colonial buildings of downtown Cairo, now covered entirely with a permanent frown of soot and dust, and juxtaposed with run-down shacks, kiosks and donkey carts clogging each and every vein and artery the city needed to survive; even amidst all of that, the Street held an undeniably disquieting character.

The Street runs from one of the world’s most opulent palaces of the golden era of the Kingdom of Egypt, Abdeen Palace (completed in the late 19th century by French architect Rousseau), to the now infamous Tahrir Square. It is studded with unkept yet splendid architecture, the impeccable carvings and magnificent doorways heavy with the burden of nostalgia and year after unrelenting year of burgeoning population growth and a culture of neglect.

I knew the Street well. I attended university on Mohamed Mahmoud Street. The American University in Cairo was founded in 1919 by missionaries from the United Presbyterian Church of North America. Though increasingly regarded in the Mubarak era as the ultimate symbol of Western neo-colonialism, the university was built by those missionaries in hopes of contributing to the education and standards of Egypt’s future leaders. And whilst it is arguable how true to that aim the university has been since its inception, the Mubarak era, characterized (among many other things) by the gaping abyss that separated the 1% haves from the 99% have-nots, shaped public perception of the expensive university such that it was regarded by most as a rich-kid party-school.

And sometimes that was not entirely false. I used to joke, when I thought it was funny, that walking through the gates of the Main Campus out onto the Street and into the city was similar to putting on the Ring of Sauron – like Frodo Baggins in the Shire, the carefree tranquility and peace behind campus walls immediately evaporated as you were consumed with an onslaught of distorted noise, bizarre visions and sweltering heat. You waded through the cars, people and other random objects in search of the safety of your serene, air-conditioned car, often driven by your grossly underpaid driver.

But unlike Frodo, the more we experienced the harsh reality of the world outside our comfort zone the less able we were to clearly see it. Access between the university’s Main Campus, facing Tahrir Square, and the Greek Campus and Library was only possible by traversing the Street – and many of us did so on a daily basis. And every day, in those few hundred yards, we saw it all. The beggars, children barely in their teens and their mothers standing by the campus gates (unless they were shooed away by security guards, in which case they stood a few more yards away) persistent in their solicitations. The self-employed valets, who over many years established a degree of notoriety for their trustworthiness (and the size of their daily revenue), picking up and dropping off shiny cars to bored girls who are usually too distracted on their cell-phones to notice either the individual handing over the keys or the incongruity of their tight, ripped jeans and bright low-cut tank tops in the otherwise conservative, poor neighborhood. The street vendors, catcalling and whistling at the blonde women, all the while wiping away the day’s dust and despair from their foreheads.

At the time, nothing in what I saw around me seemed unusual – I grew up in Mubarak’s Egypt. I was not alarmed by poverty or the obscenity it often created. I did not think twice about how garish the smallest display of wealth was to the ordinary passer-by. But in the wake of the uprising and revolution that toppled Mubarak, the more I think back on the sights and sounds, the vivid emotional memories that the Street produced, the more I realize that the Street was a microcosm of the ailments of Mubarak’s Egypt.

And when Tahrir Square overtook Tiananmen Square as the symbol of an intrepid and a fundamentally human resistance against tyranny, the Street became a focal point in the battle. And rightly so, after all, the evil of the Mubarak era was not all encapsulated in Mubarak – the tyranny was perpetuated by those of us who cared too little to change the world around us, even when we had every ability and influence to do so. The tyranny was perpetuated by the sense of entitlement many of us held, and the apathy we displayed to those of us who were less fortunate. Now as I see to this day (with the rise of the godless Islamists and the hopelessly inept leader they produced) young men and women fall to their death, coming from every background and creed our ancient country has produced, I cannot feel anything but immense pride at what they have accomplished, and immense shame at how long it took many of us to realize there was something fundamentally wrong in our society.

Mohamed Mahmoud Street, at this moment in time, and in every sense of the word, is a battlefield. The walls of the university are covered with bullet holes and freedom graffiti - the asphalt with blood, stones and broken glass. But this, too, shall pass. And when it does, let us not forget the love of country and of our fellow man, which we now have all learned at a dear, dear price.

Monday

I’m sitting at my desk after walking through the streets we wandered less than 24 hours ago. There couldn’t be more of a difference. The calm, polished and abandoned alleys from yesterday are now frantic rivers of black umbrellas and raincoats, with the sound of heels echoing against the stone facades. I swam in the midst of this river feeling acutely aware of your absence. You’ve brought so much joy and warmth to my life, thank you for making this bleak Monday morning shimmer with the memory of your eyes.

Self-acceptance

Where do you draw the line between forgiving yourself for who you are and seeking change? At which point does one recognise that forgiving oneself is not bringing about the desired effect? Those of us with self-awareness are constantly finding the faults – some bigger than others – yet we are constantly bombarded with two schools of thought, two diametrically opposite antidotes that promise a cure. ON one hand we are told you are in perpetual sin, and that change is necessary for salvation. On the other you are told that imperfection is perfection, and that your faults define your experience and growth,

A lot of rehabilitation programs (for drugs, alcohol, etc) do not believe in a conscious effort to change yourself. The harder you try, the harder you will fall it seems. From experience these seems accurate. What they do preach is accepting who you are and that mistakes are inevitable – the idea being that through that acceptance you build self esteem that by nature rejects any kind of self harm. You trick yourself, in a sense.

But what if you’re aware of the trick? Is it possible that in some cases you accept and refuse to build form there?

A New Dawn

I don’t usually write posts about my professional life but I thought I’d make an exception, seeing as I have been utterly uninspired to post pedantic psychobabble in a while.


Yesterday was the first day of my new job in the City. Somehow I managed to pull myself out of the quicksand that was my Magic Circle legal profession in Canary Wharf and throw myself into the unfamiliar and niche world of private equity investment on Throgmorton Avenue. It was both a difficult and easy decision. Difficult, because I deliberately left behind any semblance of a comfort zone I had every known over the past 4 years of working as a lawyer. Easy, because in those 4 years I developed a hatred for my job that I think few can match in magnitude.

I needed a fresh start, and by some stroke of unimaginable luck I managed to get it in the world’s largest asset management company.

I slept well the night before the big day (Monday), probably as a result of the bedroom acrobatics I exercised between 5am and noon on Sunday (thanks, Mike). I got up with a healthy amount of anxiety, bordering on first-day-of-school-what-will-the-kids-think-of-me syndrome. True to habit with all new endeavours or experiences, I had decided to get up a little earlier than I should just to walk around the City and feel more centred around the new space. You could call it marking territory – but instead of urine I identified points of interest: the nearest sushi restaurant, the nearest taxi rank, the nearest Ladurée etc. As I was walking around just before 8.30am I ran into Ian from Standard Chartered Bank, the Cedric from Kirkland & Ellis. That’s when I realised I needn’t really mark this territory further – it was already mine.

I can’t really sing, but if I could I would have bastardised Frank Sinatra with a rendition of “What a difference, a job makes”. There is almost nothing in common between my old and new job, and it seems that everything (with the exception of the facilities of my new building) is a stellar improvement. Without going into much detail as to how, friendly reader, here’s what’s in this story for you: sometimes you need to hit rock bottom to ricochet into space. Sometimes you have to insist on your success even when you see dead ends and technicalities. Knowing you deserve better and observing the mechanics of your life closely affects such mechanics and alters them by default.

In the gleam of the night fantastic

Are you anything like me? If you are, you are night creature.
What is it about the fading sun and the twinkling lights of London that inspires an almost mandatory sense of invincibility. Is it escapism (from the bland weather, from the propriety of an imperial capital or from the harshness of the Europe’s most urbanised city) at its best? Or are we a city a of indulgent hedonists that know no limits?
I am but one of the wayfarers. We can all describe each other pretty accurately – novelty is not part of the formula. We are addicted to the social orgy that is this city. We use this city and it uses us, but to this day I cannot quite ascertain who is winning. Between the clinking glasses in every den of inequity to every eruption of laughter from every player (or marionette?) in this game the plot continues to thicken, but the denouement is déjà vu. 

Mr Right

Desperation. It's unseemly, so much we all know. So when Svetlana sat me down next to her on the burgundy velvet sofa of a her opulent 18 century hotel room in Roland Gardens (pupils dilated, somewhat unsteady and voice deliberate with exhaustion) and told me never to despair after men, I knew exactly what she meant. Or, at least, I thought I did.

Youth can be the most powerful of opiates. Though absolute freedom and immortality are intelligibly impossible postulates, one still behaves with the carelessness of a free immortal. Time is cheap, so wasting it is less of a concern. This is no less true when it comes to pursuing romantic relationships. One gets more attached to a feeling, and high, than whether or not the partner in question is a long-term likelihood. One wastes a shocking amount of time with horrible matches, all to be labelled in retrospect as "learning experiences".

But most of us grow older, and realise how much time we've wasted on these lamentable "learning experiences". We hope they've equipped us with the knowledge of what it is we are looking for. We hope that the ship has not yet sailed and that there is room for two more passengers on board. Some of us keep hoping for a long, long time.

I've gotten a bit older. And with my 26^th birthday I suddenly feel an unusual push towards finding a long-term, stable relationship. Not necessarily one that lasts forever, but one that I can benefit from and whose wide, protective leaves I can grow under for at least a few years to come. Haven't you heard? It is no longer about finding the right man – rather, in reality it tends to be when a man finds you during the right time.

Enter Ronald (circa 2 weeks ago), a handsome 30 year-old English corporate lawyer from London. Sophistication drips from the very consonants he enunciates with his received pronunciation. And, despite his Downton Abbey-esque exclamations in the boudoir ("genuinely extraordinary!"), coitus has proved to be a forte. In a lot of ways, he's perfect.

I'm not wildly in love with Ronald. I think he's very attractive and I enjoy the time we spend together. I want more, but I am not obsessing about it or aching for it. That worried me at first, but then I realised, in all my "learning experiences" where I have been insanely head-over-heels and pining for someone it has always come to a crashing end. This is an opportunity to take things slow and see where they go as a mature adult. Maybe in time I will fall in love with him. But that time is not now, and not for a while.

Besides, dating another lawyer already seem a little polygamous. We both fall asleep hugging each other and our blackberries.

New | Beginnings

The new year is around the corner. And never has there been a time when a new year was this needed. I have never been the superstitious type – attaching patterns of ‘good’ or ‘bad’ to artificial measurements of time (after all, the new year used to start in March, which is why October comes with the greek prefix “octo” or “eight” and December with the greek prefix “deca” or “ten”). That said, I cannot ignore the fact that the past 15 months or so have been the most challenging in my lifetime.


There are two ways to come out of calamity and tragedy. One is to let it eat you up and become a former shadow of who you were. The other is to grab fate by the balls and command it, imposing your own will to live happily and confidently, a phoenix of sorts, more glorious than its previous incarnation.

But where is the fork in the road? What are the qualities that you need to adopt to ensure you fall on the right side of the history that is your life? Does one pursue small, incremental changes or does one dare to jump outside the box altogether and bear the brunt of it all?

I don’t have answers to any of these questions. But I think I need to believe that I will have the ability to make the right choices, even if up until now I have failed so many times. Life may be a box of chocolates, and you may never truly know what you’re going to get, but you can always ensure you go at each piece with hope and faith that milk chocolate praline is only a taste away.

So what of this new year. Quit drinking? Quit drugs? Rather than imposing changes by forcing subtractions from one’s life, maybe it is best to add a new passion to life, one that will drown out the negativity and bad habits. One that will salvage your soul and keep you afloat in the ceaseless storm of survival.

A new passion. A new hobby. A new man. A new job. A new life.

Grains of sand

Think of yourself on a beach...


Take your time. Imagine yourself sitting on the warm crunchy sand, a light breeze gently whistling into your ear.

Close your eyes if you need to.

Smell the salt, feel the sun’s rays lighting up your eyelids as they stay closed.

Feel your body free.

On that beach, dig your hands into the soft white sand and extract a handful. Watch as it gently flows through your fingers back to its source. Slowly let go of all of the sand in your hand.

Now open your hand and look at it. I am certain you will find that one grain, one small grain, didn’t make it down with the exodus. Possibly, it is trapped between the gentle ridges that run across your palm. Or beneath a nail. Find it. Concentrate on it.

How many grains of sand do you think you picked up when you dug your hands into the ground? Can you think of a number? How many grains of sand exist on the very beach you are now enjoying? How many grains of sand exist on all the beaches of this planet?

Like that lone rider you discovered on the palm of your hand, a human life is miniscule and irrelevant in a vast incomprehensible ocean of matter and existence. We exist in a body of around 2 meters for what, 80 or 90 rotations of the Earth around the sun? How many rotations do you think the Earth has gone through or will go through? How many rotations has the Sun done its star cluster? The star cluster in the galaxy? The galaxy amongst the estimated 500 billion galaxies?

Yet like that lone rider we are trapped in the lines of an invisible hand. We believe we and our problems are special, different, unique. Our perspective is so limited, we aspire to leave a legacy on this Earth and a mark on those around us. To be remembered.

It is insanely ironic.

Yet on the other hand, perhaps the perceived infiniteness of the universe around us is meant to discourage us from concentrating on it and to see it as the microcosm instead. If the world, as you perceive it, is merely just perception interpreted by your own senses, then perhaps it should not be the focal point of your life, of truth or of gain.

In more direct terms, life is too short and insignificant to be wasted on negativity, worry and ugliness. Place your problems in the perspective of the universe and you will have none. See your life as temporary and fragile and you will truly live it. You will never take yourself seriously again.

It just so happened

It just so happened that, four weeks ago to the day at 7.00pm, I realised I had misread the invitation to the Ivy Club and, even though the party was bound to end at 8.00pm, something possessed me to catch a cab and head straight there to enjoy one drink with everyone. It just so happened that, ten minutes later when Trafalgar Square was in gridlock, I jumped out of the cab and decided to walk up St Martin’s Lane anyway, instead of giving up and heading to Soho. When I arrived, you sat right across from me. The world paused. We sat and exchanged puzzled glances and QR codes.


It just so happened that my 9.00am flight to Oslo the next morning was never to be. I showed up at check-in and Expedia had failed to make the booking on my behalf, even though they sent me a confirmation number. I have never heard of this happening to anyone. The flight was overbooked and the ticket counter lady was baffled at the error. It was a beautiful autumn day in London, and I took the express back to the city. We had a weekend of getting to know each other that may have never been.

It just so happened that the one night we could escape the eyes of our friends and consummate the brimming attraction was the night before mass demonstrations in London. I didn’t need to go to work next day. We spent the day walking around, having brunch, afternoon tea and dinner. It was your last day in London. Your parents were waiting for you in Paris.

It just so happened that, a few heart-wrenching days later, work sent me to Paris on a Friday to spend the weekend. Away from the eyes of London we built a cocoon out of pure bliss. It just so happened that your childhood friends from Paris were some of the most wonderful people I’d met in a long time, who went out of their way to make sure I was included in every event.

But it also just so happens that you live in Beirut.

I feel like I have beaten all the odds, except the most important one. One error in the perfect timing all of this plot followed could have meant an altogether different outcome. And yet, it doesn't even matter in the end.

Love is a frightful thing.

Still frames

If I could freeze time, I’d probably freeze it at 5.25 pm CET last night. The sky lit up into an almost crimson red as the sun set behind the Musée D’Orsay. The air was perfectly still, the weather was docile. I sat alone on a stone bench wrapped in my black trench coat on the right bank of the Seine watching as the city’s lights began to overtake the sun’s rays. The track lighting at the top of the Tour Eiffel started beaming across the city, like a lighthouse guiding lost, sea-faring souls back to the joys of this world. Back to the beauty of what it is to be human.


If I could freeze time, I’d probably freeze it when I was finally alone with you, at 3.25 am CET last Saturday. I’d freeze it just as your hands engulfed the sides of my face and you leaned in to kiss me. I’d freeze it just as the feeling of euphoria travelled through my spine and as my arms wrapped themselves around your waist.

If I could freeze time, I’d freeze it at my high school graduation. The sense of extra-ordinary achievement, of knowing no limits to the life ahead, of being surrounded by all those I love and all those I’d spent my formative years seeing, squabbling and laughing with all the same, day in and day out. I’d freeze it just as I released my cap into the air of the giant auditorium in front of a thousand gleaming faces, my hand outstretched in mid-air and body lifted off the ground.

Or maybe, if I could freeze time, I’d freeze to before I first felt real pain. I’d freeze it to when I was foetal in my mother’s womb. Silent, unaware, warm, without flaw.

But I cannot freeze time, try as I might to hold on to fleeting moments or protect myself from heartache and tragedy. Still frames are perfect, but they are also dead. Death is a part of life and it will come in time. Until then, the best I can do in this life is to accumulate these glimpses of joy such that one day, near the very end, I can take comfort in the still frames and celebrate a life well lived, a life well conquered.

On love, actually

Intimate relationships are a cornerstone of modern civilisation. You are expected to engage in them to procreate, to create a nuclear building block to society, and to stimulate an economy. On a very fundamental level it is about the survival of our species. Socially, it’s about finding acceptance and harmony in world where couples are the norm and where we each find the need for a personal life-long support structure. Cynically, it’s about pumping money into weddings, anniversaries, children and the constant stream of tax income that will ensue from all the above.


But personally, most of us believe intimate relationships are about finding the right person to spend the rest (or a significant portion of the rest) of our lives with.

Herein lies the problem. In the terms described above, the intimate relationships of gay men and women around the world are hardly more beneficial to society, the economy or the survival of the human species than any good friendship. Adoption is still rare, and social acceptance and harmony for gay couples has almost always been an uphill climb. Childless and without the usual dependency in male/female relationships, we spend just as much money single as we do in pairs.

Still, we crave the life-long support structure, and our presence in a generally heterosexual society means that we are constantly bombarded subtly and overtly with the culture of marriage. You cannot buy a mop or a chocolate bar without images happy families, loving partners or (for the less subtle of brands) pure lust. Naturally, with time, we begin to believe we are entitled to this lifestyle that everyone else around us seems to enjoy. We start wanting to be no different than them.

Do not misunderstand. I do not believe we are defined by our sexuality. There is an infinitely wide range of aspirations for each human being and it would be ridiculous if we allowed the gender of our ideal partner to overshadow the remaining kaleidoscope of features of a man or a woman. That said, working on knowing who we are as homosexuals means that we can target exactly what it is we want out of a relationship and love without the added baggage we inherit from the world around us.

I had my heart crushed recently. After a whirlwind romance with someone my heart led me to believe I can love very quickly and cherish for years to come, I discover any hope of a relationship is doomed by the fact that he lives 3000 miles away and that he has a boyfriend waiting for him. Experiencing that kind of intense pleasure, where your chest can only do so much to contain your soul from exploding through it with joy, only to be confronted with necessary retreat and surrender, puts love and relationships in a perspective so harsh it compels you to question why you even invested so much so quickly for so little. After all, this love story is hardly anything but a cliché these days. But you are told to “put yourself out there” and believe that it’s “better to have loved and lost then never loved at all” – and to what result?

No, I am not so sure I want to readily accept what this world has presented as the ideal for happiness and fulfilling life going forward when the reality falls so far short of that ideal. There are no happily-ever-afters or monogamous, pure relationships, despite how many Disney or Hollywood movies try to convince you otherwise. In relationships there is only emotional strife, interrupted occasionally with fleeting moments of serenity. The more you manage your expectations and satisfy yourself with the possibility that you may not find a life-long partner, the more you will focus on the more important things life: to have fun when you can, and to build strong friendships and fulfilling life in every other way possible. That is the only true life-long support structure any of us can hope to have.

To Hell and Back

Dear Imaginary Reader, dear Moses of 20 years ahead


If you were to glance through the last few posts you may notice the several-month-wide gap between the last post in 2010 and the first in 2011. Forgive me for skipping the record for so long, and resuming only with my first frivolous exaltations in March and boy-crush in May. It was not the best of times.

My journey began towards the end of October, when my father’s ill health meant that he had to be transferred here to London for treatment. The poor soul was in such bad shape that he needed 24 hour attention, and I eventually had to move into his hospital room, leaving behind my job and life. Mind you the decision to move both him and me full time into the hospital came after weeks of blood spattering disease and escalation of an already horrible metastasis. I became hardened like a boulder in the face of crippling gale force winds, but even the mightiest of rocks erodes in the face of nature. I began to exhibit the first signs of trouble.

In early November, I had my first anxiety attack. It was a horrible experience, matched only by the horror of not understanding what was happening to me; why I could not breathe and why my body was going into convulsions. I was prescribed some mild beta blockers and hope that it was a freak occurrence that was probably due to stress.

By the end of November the doctors were doing all they could to put my father back on a plane to Cairo so that he could die peacefully with his family. My family were incapable of visiting London as my sister’s ex-husband had filed a abduction case in London and Paris claiming she took the child to Cairo against his will. Her visit would have meant police, court and further delays.

And so one day towards the beginning of December my father and I concealed his battered body in his now baggy clothes and I pushed his wheelchair as nonchalantly as I could across Heathrow to the door of the airplane bound for Cairo. We hoped nobody would realise how ill he was, as in such cases the airline traditionally recoils at undue responsibility forbids you to board. The charade was no easy task. There were bags of blood and urine strapped to his leg that needed to be emptied on an hourly basis. There were chills and sweats that hit him regularly as he lay prostrate throughout the five-hour flight. Somehow, we landed in Cairo without event and we delivered him to his new hospital room. I was spent. I returned to London two days later, assuming that the alleviation of responsibility would give me some peace.

It didn’t. Whilst before I had a 24-hour endeavour, a project, to keep my mind off of how I was really feeling, now I had to go back to my normal life and I found it impossible. My health deteriorated. I was not able to get out of bed for days. I needed powerful medication to sleep. Worst of all, I was beginning to have dreams and day-dreams about blood, about my blood, about razor blades and wrists. One weekend, my psychiatrist and psychologist tried intervene and send a team to my apartment to get me to move into a retreat.

By now it was the end of January, and just as I was considering the offer to go into full-time treatment the revolution began in Cairo. My father had so far survived in Cairo, but public services, even the airport at times, were suspended for at least a week. It was becoming increasingly impossible to keep him in care there, and my sister risked everything and boarded a plane with him back to London. She was arrested at the airport and her passport confiscated. I moved him into the intensive care unit at the London Clinic, the doctors there were sure he would not survive more than a couple of days. He slipped in and out of consciousness only enough to glance at us through his tired, filmy and deteriorated eyes.

I forgot about my treatment and went back into autopilot. I watched as my country descended into chaos and bravery, uncertainty and faith. I wanted every part of it, and yet all I could do was sit beside this hospital bed and stare blankly into the images of Tahrir Square on the television screen, my finger resting nervously on the court documents from my sister’s case, which was to be heard only in a few days.

In vague parallel to the revolution, we lost the first case in court, but won the appeal. It was added pressure at a harrowing time. When my father became slightly more aware of his surroundings, my sister had been exonerated, Mubarak had stepped down and the country was in a state of shock and celebration. I often wondered how he felt about that, if it mattered to his feeble mind at the time.

As ever he survived the episode in London, and we arranged the documents for an air ambulance to escort him to Cairo. My sister, now free of her chains, sat with him on the plane while I stayed behind in London. He lasted until the 3rd of May. My illness, though not entirely gone, lasted will into mid-July.

Mother Teresa once said that she knew God would never put her through something her soul could not bear, but that she also wished He didn’t trust her so much. I have never understood that thought more than I do today. But I made it through, so much is an affirmation. I experienced hell in the true sense of the word as God intended, not some fiery inferno the simpletons will have you believe but a true darkness of the mind and soul. And I climbed out of it.

It has taken a long time for me to be able to share this, but I believe this is necessary for me to move on. I believe I have seen the worst of times and I have been assured of my power to outlive. I may have lost the two anchors of my life, my parents, but if anything the events of these past 13 months have taught me is that we all need to build more anchors, surround ourselves by unconditional love and invest in those around us equally.

We have nothing if we do not have each other.

The Circus

Following on from my last post – I finally figured out how to "get a grip" and take the pressure (and the expectations) off the unassuming 23 year old charmer: date another guy at the same time. Although 'juggling' sounds somewhat unseemly, the more I delved into both relationships simultaneously the more I was amazed at how much sense it made.

Let me rewind briefly. Only hours before the date I had with Assad, I had met at a friend's BBQ a Russian guy, George. George had playfully asked when we'd go on our first date and, having felt a slight attraction to him ab initio we exchanged numbers and set the date for Friday. It was only then that I hurried into a cab back home to start preparing dinner for Assad.

After swooning for 5 days over Assad, I eventually mustered the will to go out with George, not expecting at all to end up having any fun. In truth, we had a fantastically entertaining evening at my favourite brasserie and took a walk to wild jazz club tucked away in Belgravia to finish it off. I was still all over Assad, but George's company and energy was unmistakably positive. After saying good night, we arranged a date for mimosas at my place the next morning which he attended punctually.

Over the next few days I came to realise that I was incredibly comfortable with George. Although I find Assad probably more along the lines of what I tend to be interested in physically, George seems both interesting and interested. And just as balance of power between those two started to shift towards George, Assad jumped back into the picture with a vengeance. We spent another couple of days together and, though we had an excellent time and I enjoyed his company very thoroughly, I was much more relaxed and in perspective when I dropped him off at the station.

Tango for three may not be the easiest logistically, but you certainly get the best practice and the most flavour. Now I have two pretty amazing people in my life that I'm not hurling concern, doubt or teenage infatuation towards just because they balance each other off pretty well. Of course, at some point I may have to make a choice. But by then, I will have settled into a comfortable spot with whomever it turns out to be and it won't matter.

Peace

Under the Mauve Fantastic

When I ran into Assad at around 2 a.m. at London's new 'it' club last Thursday, a quarter of a bottle of Belvedere + four Champagne glasses into the evening and in line for a bathroom stall, I couldn't help but think out loud – why haven't we gotten to know each other more? I've seen him a handful of times over the past couple of years, most recently at my last birthday party, but for one reason or another (and as is the case when you're surrounded by too many people) I had simply overlooked him.

It certainly wasn't due to lack of appeal. He has a distinct attractiveness to him – pale blue eyes, large golden hair that he styles back like a lion's mane, a reserved demeanour and, of course, that characteristic nose that you either love or hate. Still it took the dressing-room type light bulbs in that bathroom in Room Service for his features to glow. I asked him for his number and he was kind to provide it.

Our date was Sunday night. I'd originally suggested a neutral 'coffee' somewhere around 'town' but he responded with a very specific request for me to cook on Sunday evening. Delighted to have finally come across someone with a solid pair, I happily obliged, but as we sat outside on my terrace having our first real conversation and as the sky dimmed and the candlelight shown brighter and brighter, I realised I felt something that I hadn't felt on a date in a long time – nervous!

He was well spoken, eloquent, very well mannered and gentle. He laughed effortlessly and his features were accentuated by the evening glow. I realise now that was when I'd fallen for him. So complete and utter was my infatuation that when he suggested we go upstairs and watch a movie in bed I didn't even attempt to try and slow things down, and when he said he was 23 years old I didn't shudder or freak out.

Tending to my usual neuroses, I cleaned up downstairs while he jumped into bed with the wine bottle and two glasses. We watched, played, and watched. He fell asleep and I struggled to do the same with my heart beating out of control. In the morning, I left him half asleep in bed and went to work, all the time taking full satisfaction in knowing he is still in my space, in my bed.

Experience has taught me that this kind of infatuation rarely ends well. Communication throughout the week has been patchy, and some time on Wednesday I realised to my horror that I may have met my match when it comes to the overplayed charm and getting what I want only to discard it later. I may only be 2 years older than he is, but I see a lot of myself in him, and that scares me, because I was a good player for a while.

 That said, my spirituality edges me on and asks me to release the negativity and anxiety and enjoy the moment so that it may last forever. Making these value judgments and having these fears after one date is not only premature, its destructive. I may end up ruining what would have otherwise been something very positive and much needed given my recent bereavement.

Belle de (tous les) Jour (Qindblogazine.com)

Svetlana moves through a room with grace and almost shy charisma worthy of a young princess. Her features are chiselled and developed; she is a strong woman, but a smile broadens her face with a delicate softness that washes away any hint of menace.

You won’t be fooled, however, when you stand for a minute and look into her eyes. It’s those piercing orbs, which light up with menacing excitement against the lasers beaming through a club at 4am, that arouse the indecent tendencies within you.

Svetlana has been described as “the Queen”, but no word can really encapsulate who she is and what she does. The former remains a mystery to most, the latter an obsession. Her true passion and friends, gay men in Europe and around the world, gained her her notoriety from Barcelona to Mykonos, London to Milan. She is the 5am shepherd, the queen of high(er) brow sex parties and London’s intrepid party scene.

Social stigma seems often to be a foreign concept to Svetlana. Beyond the reasonableness of self-preservation, she wastes no time with stigma or with those who espouse it. Watching her operate, limitless and always with the excitement of a teenage girl, is liberating.

My first encounter with Svetlana was at a mansion in central London that she had rented out one evening to host a private party for a select number of gay men. The space was sprawling, the champagne flowing, and with 40+ men anxious for the grand 2am finale (that is, when our hostess kindly instructs us to remove our clothing and join her in the lower den of iniquity) it was electric. And when the hour of reckoning arrived, no build-up could have really done the climax any justice.

Skin on skin, limbs in every direction, intertwined, tanned, glistening against the soft lights and amidst the locked lips and moaning. Personalities, faces, names were not important. You delved into the web of torsos, cocks, and fingers and gorged so indiscriminately, it was truly sex for the sake of sex alone. In that I found immense pleasure, not because how many times I ejaculated or how many men I enjoyed, but because it was, for once, all about me. It was about what I wanted, with no compromises or awkward conversations. No commitment or pseudo infatuation. 

Perhaps the only thing more intriguing than the sexual activity in these parties is the voyeurism exhibited by the hostess. She thrives on watching masculinity rip itself apart, the shifts of power from top to bottom, master to slave, and man to boy. Perhaps the reason Svetlana reigns the gay underworld is because of the lack of inhibition it allows her, and the lack of judgment in the eyes of these men (both for each other and for her). Perhaps it’s the thrill of anticipation, as often times a gentlemen steps out of the tangled mass of flesh and decides to penetrate her body instead.

Svetlana was married once upon a time, and lived in many capitals around the world. She’s generous, funny and outgoing. It’s easy for the prudish around us to judge her life and choices – she leaves a trail of lustful, spent and intoxicated men in her absence – but before the monotheisms of the world instilled their values into our cultures, in the times of Rome and Babylon, she would have not been anything out of the ordinary.

Scorpio 1–Back to the basics

It was a beautifully warm and sunny Sunday morning when my sister called to tell me that my father’s health was deteriorating fast and that it was time for me to come home to Cairo and spend some time with him. The seriousness of her tone and the alarm in her words carved a hole through my insides.



I was in bed, with the glare of the sun bleaching my sheets, burning at my face and neck. Wrapped around my torso was Thor, a charming and attractive Norwegian who was in town for the weekend from Oslo. He sensed the weirdness in my voice and sat up somewhat intently. When I was done with my phone call, I sat quietly for a moment before trying to explain. It was an odd situation, trying to spell out a sore emotional spot to someone I’d just met. On a strange level, I was grateful he was there. I needed someone to listen, even if to the few chopped sentences I put together, and I needed a warm body close to mine, even if his interest in me was not very developed in nature.



The next 48 hours were a mad rush to find a spot on an airplane, to retrieve my passport from the Italian embassy that has been holding it hostage, and to get paperwork and work done to allow me a few days of personal time. Eventually, I touched down in Cairo and made it home to evaluate the circumstances for myself.



It’s difficult, seeing someone who has always been so active and full of energy bed-ridden and gasping for air. Though incredibly weak, his situation was more stable than I imagined, and that brought some relief.



The strangeness of being in Cairo on an unannounced, unplanned and family-focused visit resulted in some incredible sensations. For one reason or another, I felt like I was back in my mid teens- an innocent, awkward kid in high school hiding out at his parent’s place. The bed I slept in every night is the same bed I had slept in so long ago, and each night as my head hit the soft pillow my mind would race with memories of childhood dreams. Like every teenager I dreamt and fantasized so often, and they were always dreams of a life I was so anxious to start. A life where I would feel accepted and special; where I would fall in love with a handsome, caring man; where I would achieve the pinnacle of my profession; and where I would leave the confines of this oppressive city and be unashamedly me. I would lie there for hours, staring into the dark ceiling, my very core inspired by the freedom, the love that I knew I would have one day very soon…very soon.



I cannot help thinking that I’ve lost touch with that 15 year old boy. Yes, perhaps he was naïve at times, but his values were simple, his dreams clear and attainable. Never in a million years would I have thought that the true challenge facing me now nearly ten years later is the lack of understanding of what it is that I want. Was I always complex in my needs or have I been confused by my new surroundings? I’m not sure it matters. The truth is life has given me several chances to settle down with someone and be happy, but my indecision and pettiness often got the better of me. My ever-rising standards with my every dwindling tolerance. Where does that leave me?



Thor keeps crossing my mind. We’d only spent 3 nights together, but he already made quite an impression. “Perhaps the brevity of his visit had something to do with the intensity of what we shared,” I say to myself, but just as I try and rationalize and demystify that beautiful weekend I wonder to myself – would 15 year old Moses destroy the chance of a meaningful relationship because he was doubtful if the amazing feelings he had for this person were real? Would the fact that this man lives in Oslo have mattered? I don’t think so. He would have laughed at the idea of feelings being fabricated because of a flight schedule or at the 1.5 hour plane ride between London and Oslo as a serious impediment.



This is what I need to do to every negative or doubtful thought- instill the hopeful, dreamy child within. Back to the basics, people. Back to the basics.

Scorpio–Prelude

“I hope you are all ready,” he looked into his copy of the Zohar before looking back up again at the curious faces, his grin even wider. “Expect it all this month; turbulence, emotional turbulence of to shake the very ground your feet stand on; internal conflict that will tear your insides apart and bring to the surfaced a raw, exposed you, ready to begin anew and rise from the ashes of Scorpio.

“For in this month you will become one of two things: this very phoenix that rises from the ashes and soars into the sky, a glorious powerful being to behold, or a scorpion- laden with poison, treading the endless desert that is your emotional abyss.”

At the time I did not pay much attention beyond what would have been reasonably polite in the circumstances. I was used to grand declarations being made during Shabbat. Drama was part of the show, and only naturally so: the centre catered to wealthy divorcées and flamboyant gay men, with the odd Jew thrown in for good measure.

But it only took a few hours for Marcus’ words to cast their spell.

And further to my last rant on gay marriage

(Slightly outdated news but) Looks like someone in the US finally saw my point! Though he hasn't argued the demotion of marriage, he states clearly that religious establishments are only granted the ability to preform marriage by the state.

READ THIS ARTICLE

Civil Partnership Bells?

Rony and I share respectful friendship based on mutual admiration. Ever since I’ve been out-posted to a bank in London’s financial district, the City, we’ve made a conscious effort to meet up for lunch once every month or so and catch up about all that life has thrown at us.

With my return 3 miles east to the Canary Wharf imminent, we decided to have one last City lunch yesterday. As I’ve been attempting to fast for Ramadan, it was really Rony who was lunching, with me doing more than my usual share of talking.

Our conversations are usually very general. We do not know each other that well, after all, having met through mutual friends and found common ground through the industry we work in. So I was very surprised when Rony reached into his suit pocket and produced an invitation to his wedding. Rony and Vladimir have been together for many years, and I was ecstatic that they were finally tying the knot. In my profuse congratulations I noticed that Rony was visibly nervous about the whole ordeal.

After he’d eaten, we decided to take a short walk through the Royal Exchange. He was in charge of buying the wedding rings, after all, so we started our trek at Cartier. An older, German lady stood behind the impeccable counter and eyed us inquisitively as we walked in. We were shown a rather limited selection of male wedding bands, but Rony decided there was one he wanted to try on. As he slipped the gleaming titanium onto his ring finger, I could see his eyes examine his hand with confusion, almost bewilderment.

“That looks wonderful,” she exclaimed (with the amount of exclamation one would expect from an older German lady).

Rony looked at me, still confused, and said in Arabic, “It looks a little strange, doesn’t it?”

I looked at the lady and quickly said, “Maybe something a little more matte?” Looking at Rony I could see the most endearing look on his face. A little bit of disbelief, a lot of excitement, and just a hint of lovesickness.

“The shine will wear off within a few weeks,” Frau Boring stated, “but perhaps you can return with the young lady and get her opinion as well?”

Rony looked at her, looked down again and muttered “Yes” under his breath. I suppose in his position I wouldn’t have bothered correcting the woman, but I was amazed that at this day an age in central London people are still confident in making the assumption that a man walking in to buy his wedding band would be eloping with a ‘young lady’. My Peter Tatchell moment aside, Rony had clearly lost interest in Cartier and we walked across the atrium to Tiffany’s.

The selection at Tiffany’s was wider, and the more Rony tried on rings, the more at ease he seemed with the idea of a ring. Again, the sales lady made the assumption that a ‘young lady’ would be involved, but after the third ring Rony politely stated: “Actually, it’s a civil partnership, so I will definitely bring him along tomorrow around 4.30 to see which one he prefers as well.”

The sales lady, this time American, repeated her congratulations and invited him and his partner to a private champagne shopping afternoon so that they could spend as much time deciding as they’d like. But as she rambled on I was surprised at how offended I was at the term ‘civil-partnership’.

Yes, in England gay ‘marriage’ is not technically marriage but a civil-partnership. Though most people have done away with the distinction on a social level, legally and semantically the difference remains. Sure, equal rights are afforded under both marriage and civil-partnership, and civil-partnership is open to straight couples as much as it is to gay ones, but I felt that in some way we were still being separated. And as we all know, separate is not equal.

But what defines marriage? Spain, Holland, Canada and Argentina are just some of the countries that have removed the barrier to marriage between members of the same sex, but on a practical level, what does this mean? Marriage is a term as much laden with religious stigma as it is with social expectations. So is that why Rony had to demote his big day to a ‘civil-partnership’? Is marriage an elevation of any sort?

This point has been hashed and rehashed ad nauseum in far too many fora, and I’m not about to delve into it on this semi-serious online rag of mine. But on reflection I feel like I should give my 2 cents worth – why is ‘marriage’ propped up and supported by secular governments? It seems absurd that a mainly religious ceremony and religious contract (even though for the most part people leave God out of it) holds so much weight in everything from how much tax you pay to who has the right to sign your mortgage documents.

To all the glorious crazies on Capitol Hill and in San Francisco, to Boris Johnson who stood up at Gay Pride London and demanded that same-sex couples be allowed to marry – you’re missing the point! What should actually be taking place, what we should be fighting for, is a demotion of ‘marriage’ as an institution recognized by the law. The partnership status of a citizen under a secular government should only be considered in light of any civil union. If Joe and Jane want to have a big church wedding, let them and god bless, but in no way should that have any legal value or weight. Their agreement should be sealed in a civil partnership, and it is purely that civil agreement that should allow them next of kin rights, tax allowances, and healthcare benefits. In theory, the United States’ elusive separation of church and state should have cooked this one up a while ago. But they can’t even get the word “God” off their money.