MEMORIES OF MANHOOD

I am a man. But I haven’t been a man for very long. At least, I didn’t realize it until very recently, when all of a sudden the question of “who am I?” loomed very heavily over my head. At that point I was nothing but a puppet. I was told I had no identity of my own. I knew it was true too. Then it began, the desperate process of searching, of trying to swim into the depths of my mind in yearning for any memory that could help me make sense of myself. Frantically grasping at any and every thought, trying to put together the shattered fragments of me like pieces of a puzzle. I’m not one to commit to keeping a journal, but back then keeping one was crucial. I needed to record all my discoveries, both internal and external, and for that my journal was to be my pensieve.

Who am I? The question shook me. Naturally, my first step was to go back to my childhood. My earliest memory? Not knowing how to ask my teachers that I wanted to go to the toilet. Not very helpful. My favorite toys? Well, I remember having a large collection of toy cars. But this doesn’t have to mean anything unless you believe in gender stereotypes. I spent most of my time playing with my male cousin, but that doesn’t mean anything either because he was the only kid of my age. My memories of childhood pretty much end there. Not as helpful as I thought they would be.

Middle school; body changes, puberty, social anxiety, angst and what have you. No other period in your life could ever give you better hints about who you are than this one. I should have pretty clear memories, shouldn’t I? Nopes. Besides having a very vague notion of being uncomfortable with my body, there were no other hanging red herrings. I played games using male characters. I was partial to books with male protagonists. I recall overhearing a phone call where the subject matter was the transition of an intersex person, and I remember my overwhelming excitement about it; something so out of the ordinary, so unique, so different; so like me.  Only to resort eventually to the disappointment that I could not be that unique. I remember wondering whether I had “different” genitals hidden somewhere inside of me. I had to dig deep to uncover these memories. And even then, all I had to work with were vague memories, so vague they didn’t even leave any lingering shadows behind.

I entered high school with the intention of being a new person. A chance to rebuild me all over again. A clean slate, while trying to ‘be myself’. That phrase was new to me, before then there was no ‘me’. At first it confused me, but later on I embraced it. However, it never embraced me. Today, my memory of that time is ambiguous. I spent almost all of it pondering over this matter. What it means to be myself? Where to do draw the line? What is it in me that could answer my questions? For a while I couldn’t answer any if them confidently. But now the matter is no longer a question to me. My memories, though, failed me again.

It all started with a resurfaced memory, almost two years ago, one that told me that “I am not myself.” And I am still groping for more memories, hoping others will resurface, giving me valuable clues to the inner workings of my mind. So far that hasn’t happened. So far all the recollections I’ve managed to collect all point me towards the same thing. At least, that’s what I believe. The fickle thing with memory, is that it’s very malleable. How am I to trust that my own recollections are even true? How do I know that I’m not making it all up?  Is my mind playing tricks on me? I have no clue. And there’s no way to find out. 

That’s the scariest part of all this. As much as I try to dig for those memories. As much as I try to find any traces of evidence to support the way I feel. No matter what I do, as long as it happens inside my head, there’s no way to prove it. I can hope that my memories aren’t letting me down, but I will never know for sure. I can tell you, that I am a man, but at the end of the day, my memories will do nothing to support or refute my statement. I wish memories had more legitimacy. Maybe then, and only then, people would believe me.

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TEXT: HIND

PAUSED MEMORY

The days run in a similar shade,
She is tracing the steps of yesterday
Another line added to her fragile hands,
You play with the words and convince her that its day one and there’s no aftermath
But you cannot erase the kiss of time gently pressed on her hands.
Her tongue sings a familiar question
“Where is my dear one?”
Her mind bounces back
Between reality and a tragic time
Resisting,
Resisting,
Until it collapse
A quick Reset
Her mind adjusts
Finding comfort in ignorance
You are home,
You are fine.

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TEXT: ALAA PHOENIX

SUBURBIA: CINEMATICALLY CAPTURED MEMORIES

Suburban movies capture dull mundane scenes, intertwined with the unexplained paranoia and angst that is not pictured, but rather felt. The evocative, raw expression of human behavior we watch and harmoniously experience watching suburban films is an un-debatable proof of the cinematic brilliance of the simplistic, humane aspects of suburbia.

Watching suburbia, we often encounter feelings of sentimentality, which are not feelings of sentimentality but rather recognition. Because suburbia is the dullest street in the neighborhood, and the most iconic one on a screen. When you look at a still and realize how yellow the trash can is, or when you notice the non-Wes Anderson-esque color scheme of the pink tinted sky and the brilliant green grass, and of course, the yellow trash can. You notice all the corners of the still, the schemes, the aesthetics. Then, you recognize that it's similar to what you cross by everyday. You haven't recognized it before because it's too dull and ordinary. But now it's the background of a tense scene where a wine bottle was smashed and the brilliant green grass is filled with shattered glass. Then it's the background of two middle schoolers drawing out their post-school lives, eating an entire box of Roll-ups. The question then lies in how can a scene so mundane be artistic? At that, we are hit by the epiphany that founded Suburbia, the perceptive revolution that recognized Suburbia as a form of art and appreciated the transparency and rawness of daily life over films made with the help of Christopher Nolan and the special effects department.

Then you wonder again, why haven't we appreciated the still before? Why haven't we appreciated the yellow trash can, the pointless conversations, the flickering drive-thru red neon sign, the fading sound of music, and the echo green color of traffic lights if we pass by them everyday? It's because we're in a rush. We're always in a rush.

 

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TEXT:
GHADA SHAINAN
SAUDI ARABIA

PHOTOGRAPHY:
SARAH AHMED
YEMEN/UAE

SKELETONS

 

The memory of my bones itching
To poke holes through my skin
Eats away at the inside of my lungs
And carves the outside of my skull
Till it becomes paper thin
And my mind explodes into
A supernova of memories
The memory of your skin
Meeting mine with the pull of a black hole
The memory of my past self
Walking on clouds
And shining with the warmth of the sun
And the memory of unknown happiness
Breaking through every layer of insanity

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TEXT: HANAA AL MANSOORI
ART: ANGIE ABBAS

 

RADIOACTIVE

It’s a room. One, in a series of many. No one knows all of the rooms or how to get to them. There are endless nooks and evermore hallways. Everything is bare. Concrete floors and walls resemble a house of mirrors. Walking around is like living on Escher’s staircase. Your sanity swirls down the drain as sweat from your forehead floats up to the floor. There is a spark. Something glints in the distance and catches your eye. You see it more clearly as you round the corner. You step into a new room, one that you have been in many times before. The walls are plastered with thousands of little mementos, evenly shaped pieces of paper partially stuck to the wall. They move in the nonexistent breeze. Flowing, like a shooting star under a carpet. One near you seems to be glowing. It peels off. Its relationship with the wall is annulled. The yellow leaf is set ablaze as it floats into the sky and disappears. Most of these tiny fragments are yellow, faded with time. The rest are color-coded by year, with two digits inscribed on the back to mark the date. They have no other form of identity. No pattern. No reference. Whether a letter, a word, or even a sketch, all these defaced notes adhere to a wall. They are scattered to and fro, a mosaic portraying your life. There might be enough room for them all, and perhaps not. Everything is encoded and stored, but you cannot retrieve them. These memories have all been gathered up and shoved into a closet. The landslide as you open the door is large enough to kill you, or at least drive you mad. The door is opened. A gun materializes and rests against a stranger’s temple. This stranger is praying to a god. The walls around you suddenly burst into flames. Everything is ravaged and burned. Nothing survives, save for a small slab of stone that marks where he now rests. The last memory of a forgotten world.

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TEXT: MUGREN ALOHALY
ART: LAYLA MOHAMED

MAMA NOURA

Last time I wrote something that exceeded 140 characters was during my English high school final. However, this issue’s theme “Memory” hit a cord, so here goes.

One of the very earliest memories I have of my maternal grandmother, Mama Noura, was her letting my father know that elementary students are not prepping for their masters degree, and that they should go have fun with their cousins. Needless to say, we did.

My last memory of her actually semi-knowing who I was, was around 2 years back, when I stayed over for a month and every time she turned her head, she’d ask me where my mother was. Literally every time she turned her head. Around 20 times in a single setting.

We first noticed her temper really getting shorted by the second, and wouldn’t remember names. She was confirmed to have Alzheimer’s Disease around 5 years back. The grandchildren’s names were first to go. She looked at me and knew that she knew me. From the bottom of her heart loved me, but could’t call me by my name. That frustrated her, and I aggravated her when I’d help her out. “you think I’m crazy? You think I don’t know your name?” She was echoing her own fears.

The closest thing young people know about Alzheimer’s Disease is unfortunately Grey’s Anatomy. I’m thankful it’s has been raised to the younger demographic in a TV show as popular as Grey’s Anatomy. However, there is a misrepresentation of the disease as merely affecting memories. The viewer sees Meredith’s mother Ellis diagnosed to have Alzheimer’s, yet fully functioning throughout the show, except for the small part of not knowing who Meredith is.  Another lead character later on the show, Richard’s wife Adele, gets diagnosed. Again the viewer is lead to believe only her memories are affected, by not recognizing her own husband and falling in love with another man at the nursing home.

What Grey’s Anatomy forgot to represent to you, or tried and miserably failed, that it’s not just the memories that are taken away, it’s the cognitive function as well. It sucks the life out of you. It changes you, to the worst.

Your personality, your core, what people loved about you, what made you YOU, regardless of how cliche that sounds. Your loved ones will look at a hollow representation of a person that once was.

Grey’s Anatomy writers again chose to create this myth, and called it The Gift, another event in Ellis’s disease, where she literally wakes up one day, with her brain fully functioning. To the degree she’s disappointed in her own daughter she hadn’t found a cure yet. Because if anyone is capable of miracles, it’s Meredith. Why is that physiologically impossible? There are 2 main cells in the body that never regeneratethe brain and heart cells. Your loved one will never have a Gift. Your loved one will never wake up fully aware of his/her surroundings, because once the damage is done, it’s done.

What media or your neurologist won’t tell you is that by the end of it, you won’t recognize them. My analysis of what was once a decent show is a normal reaction due to the direct effect it has on my family members. How it gives them false hope, or doubt that maybe the doctors here aren’t doing enough. Because why is Mama Noura not acting like Ellis?

I’m here to tell you it is a dark path that many are walking, but few are speaking out about. To tell you that there is no light at the end of the tunnel. Their memories will fade, and so will their personalities. Albeit sad, every once in a while, a glimpse of them will shine, and that should suffice. My Mama Noura was borderline OCD clean, she still wipes her own dishes before using them. She still won’t wear anything that hasn’t been washed to death. She still refuses to eat alone. She still won’t eat or drink anything that isn’t burn-your-tongue hot. She can still wear her kohl and lipstick like a boss. She doesn’t remember how many children she has, but still calls the driver by his name.

 

I write this for one purpose, and one only: awareness!

First, People don’t change personalities, in any way, out of old age. The brain doesn’t work like that.

If your loved one started to become angrier or even calmer than usual, be alarmed.

If they started to forget more than usual, be alarmed.

If they developed a new social anxiety (in fear they’d embarrass themselves in public), be very alarmed.

There is no one single symptom I could point out, although I wish there was. At the very beginning of her disease, Mama Noura knew she was losing small bits and pieces, she knew she couldn’t remember if she had prayed or not. But she was far too proud to voice her concerns, and far too smart for her symptoms to show.

It took my family 3 years to take her to a doctor and diagnose her, which progressed the disease faster that it should have. She could've been better for longer.

 

Second, Alzheimer’s CAN NOT be cured.

I tell you and my family that still stuff her with so many drugs, in hopes she would one day wake up and call their names. It can only be slowed down.

Maybe out of subconscious guilt, my family took her to doctors around the globe. She has seen to doctors in 4 different continents. Regardless of the numerous times I’ve reminded them, that as much as I wish I was wrong, there isn’t a cure. If anything, all that traveling around exhausted her.

 

Third, it’s not your fault.

Mama Noura was the healthiest person I know; walked every day, ate her fruits and vegetables, which prevented her from the 21st century’s epidemics, hypertension and diabetes, but not from Alzheimer’s.

Don’t blame yourselves for something you did or did not do.

 

Fourth, love them no matter what.

Love them when they are unable to love you back. Love them when they hit you because they think you’re a stranger. Love them through sickness and health. Love the person they were, because that’s who they are. Hold onto the person you grew up loving and cherishing. Keep that person alive. At the same time, don’t let the disease halt your emotions towards them. They can’t help it, but you can. Love who they were, but don’t hate the person they’ve become.

I love my grandmother for so many reasons, but mostly for the sacrifices she made throughout her life. How she was a progressive thinker at such a conservative time. She is an illiterateorphan that married way too soon, yet managed to raise thinkers and influencers. She valued education above all else. She practically raised us and my cousins when our mothers were struggling with their studies. Any other woman of her age would have urged her daughters to drop it all for their husbands. Not my grandmother.

My greatest regret to this day that she never saw me graduate. She was so proud of me when I got accepted. I know she would have loved to be there, and I would have loved if she was.

 

Fifth, don’t let them know you know.

We’ve all misplaced our phones, called people by the wrong names, or prayed twice. There is a huge difference between forgetting, and knowing you forgot and can’t recall no matter how hard you try.

There are pamphlets on top of pamphlets on how to deal with an affected loved one, but it all comes down to the simple fact of letting them enjoy the memories and people as long as they can. If they asked if they’ve prayed, that means they don’t remember praying, which means you act like you know they haven’t, that boosts their confidence. Even if it means praying much more than 5 times a day. Unless it starts to wear them down, try to gently remind them they already did.

 

Sixth, it’s not about you.

As obvious as that may seem, it can be pretty hard to apply. Standing idle as a person you hold dear gets eaten away is difficult.

I avoided my grandmother for a good 2 years because I couldn’t fathom remembering her like that. So my smart plan was to see as less of her as possible. A stupid decision I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, because I preferred to cater to my feelings, than her needs. Also, miss the last few years she actually knew who I was.

 

Like most grandmothers, she simultaneously complained about our weight, and never stopped shoving food down our throats from the moment we came in. To this day, I’ve yet to try a better scrambled eggs sandwich with a side of mashed potatoes.

Maybe my grandmother’s memories have been eaten away by a disease we know so little about, but that shouldn’t happen to your loved ones. Be vigilant. Keep their memories alive.

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TEXT: LSM

MEMORY

It's a derelict space; a land of bygone wealth and broken stones. You meander along the laid path, letting the rain pelt you as the clouds pass by.

It's peaceful. Even magical, maybe. Just a little bit. And as the pitter patter of the waterdrops speed up on your umbrella, you close your eyes and see it as it once was, bustling with people and furs and nobility, with children and coal and bales of hay. With injustice and slavery and prejudice. You see a prince pass by, and a maid sweap the hearth. You watch as a mother quietly nurses her babe. You breathe in the wonderfully cold air, and add a fairy or two to the scene in front of you. Goblins underneath the grate. Ghouls in the highest tower. Gryphons descending from the skies to feast on the grazing sheep below.

And you smile. Because you can still see that world, the past one and the magical one. It's still in your brain, in the deep recesses of your mind. Age has not taken it away from you. Yet.

You sidestep a sprite that's sticking its tongue out at you. Step carefully over a toadstool house. And then your brother calls you from the bottom of the hill and you accidentally leave the place you were just in. But he's calling you to a perch on the cliff with a view that takes your breath away.

And as you stand there, with your brother, with your family, in a fog that the worlds would envy, you remember, again, that sometimes the real world is even better.

Sometimes.

(Quick! Look! That dragon is waving hello!)

 

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TEXT: JOHARA ALMOGBEL
ART: AZIZ