In 1992, Damascus was a world of corner stores and corner soldiers. Of kids drinking soda from straws stuck in plastic bags and of buying baby chicks from a little boy carrying them in a box on his head. It was a world of fresh vegetables and ripe apricots that gave way to ripe watermelons […]
Classics on the Hallway Floor Read More »
One of things I probably miss most about school is summer vacation—that glorious three-month stretch in the calendar when there’s sooo much more time to read. Nowadays, my job expects me to keep working all twelve months of the year… Unfortunate, but understandable.
A Summer for Reading: Some New Releases from Muslim Authors Read More »
In a world that often feels shattered, patience is rarely the first virtue we reach for. When images of devastation fill our screens and the weight of distant suffering sits heavy on our chests, patience can seem passive and, at times, inadequate. But there is another kind of patience—one that is neither passive nor silent.
If you’re of a certain age, or even if you’re younger but you have access to YouTube or streaming services, you probably know a cat named Tom and a mouse named Jerry. If you were asked to describe them, it could be done in very few words. “Bully” comes to mind for Tom and “smart, sassy underdog” for Jerry. Their show finds them enacting these roles episode after episode, with very rare glimpses of the personalities behind their archetypal masks. Even as a kid I found this uber-boring.
Love Your Villians Read More »
Nobody knew why Leroy Maxfield was called Bus. No one except Milt. And he wasn’t about to tell a soul that it was because when the head umpire was six, he had set fire to the family home while using his mom’s kitchen matches to see if twigs would heat the oven. After all, his mom used the matches to light the burners on the stove, and the stove in the living room was heated with wood… His pa’s cries of, “He’s busted me! He’s busted me!” had jarred the neighborhood, and Leroy was “Bus” from then on.
Leroy “Bus” Maxfield Read More »
Recently, in a writing critique group, I nervously shared my idea for a book I want to write. I prefaced this idea with “I am not a writer, but…” As soon as that sentence left my mouth, I knew it was the wrong thing to say around this group of people and I promptly heard
Why You Should Call Yourself a Writer Read More »
“I can’t see anything!” Someone exclaims, trying to push away the cloudy fog in vain so he can see the road.
“You should get used to it,” Anyone replies, nonchalantly, walking further and further until Someone can barely see Anyone, “It’s like this everywhere except The County.”
“I’m telling you,” Someone insists, “I’m not from The County!”
“Then where did you come from?” Anyone replies, sneering. “Earth?”
The World of Rethar Read More »
Four ways to care for your inner writer, no candles needed Like other kinds of art, writing asks us to transform our feelings, experiences, and ideas—abstractions that only exist in our mind—into a concrete form that can be experienced by others. That is difficult and important work! How can we make sure to take care
Self-Care for Writers Read More »
Fajr finds a choir of morning birds serenading me.Would that I could trade them for the velvet cooing of the mother doveWho lives on my window ledge in Syria, four stories up. “Ithikreeni Da’iman,” calls Damascus“Remember me always”And I do. I long for the soft invitation of the athaan at fajrFloating, beckoning on clear morning
Ithikreeni Da’iman Read More »
Think about the last time you settled in with a good book, a steaming cup of coffee in hand. It’s a universal ritual of comfort and focus. Now, let me ask you a question that might seem strange: What does that cup of coffee have to do with a polymath who lived in Baghdad over
The Unlikely Link Between Your Coffee and a Ninth-Century Muslim Genius Read More »
