I put the "I" in Single

Years and years I've been whingeing about being single and the plight that comes with, pissed off a few readers, got some interested, others irritated and bored myself with it. Then I thought what if I actually just came out and faced it.

I am single and am totally ambivalent about it, why aren't you?


It seems the only pressure I feel about being single is when I meet my married or to be married friends or those in a relationship. I get that nagging feeling which is lot like when I know I am supposed to do something but can't remember what it is and that makes me feel in trouble. So you understand NOT a good feeling. The rest of the time I am quite content and a bit triumphant like I've found the secret recipe to a long and happy life a bit like when you discover a glitch in a system that allows you to order things online for free but you don't tell anyone else for fear of ruining it for yourself (never actually happened).


What is so bad about being single anyway? My name is not single, I do not become "single", it's nothing but a socially constructed status, it is not an identity or something that you are or contract like a decease or a condition.


The pressure is mounting, it's palpable and frankly annoying, tired of the comments as snide as condescending like there's something wrong with you that you can't find someone to love you. With all your friends getting hitched around you and the growing a sense of self achievement and elevation that allows them to suddenly claim the moral high ground and the ability to dish out their newly acquired wisdom (presumably the wisdom descends on you upon placing a diamond or diamond-like ring on your index finger), they become the self-appointed gurus you should be looking to for guidance and ways to get a man to slip that much sought after Diamond ring on your fat finger (my long life dream!!). Well you know what? I have a diamond ring and I slip in and out of my finger every night before I go to bed.
So jog on...ya! it's 2019 - why are we still talking about this.
Arguably, financially I am starting to feel it doesn't make much sense, as I am always the friend or aunty who buys the engagement, wedding, birth, birthday gifts and countless cards (it's a big thing here in the UK) which is amounting to a pretty little sum (did the math - you all owe me big time!!), always celebrating my friends' life choices which are the choices condoned and validated by society. Not mine though...you will never find a card saying "Congratulations on remaining single" and unless it's a birthday (if your friends actually deign to turn up to your birthday party), nobody seems very concerned about celebrating you or your life, 'cos everyone has got a one of those...a birthday! and remaining single simply isn't condoned by the patriarchy so you are effectively a dissident!


Furthermore, nobody actually believes you are happily single, expect for the ones with the same "condition" and are all women. Of course it is all a ruse in an attempt to regain pride and avoid humiliation in the face of this “unwanted” status.


MIC DROP!


PS: this is a very old post I drafted but never published. Now it's out, funny how it remains as relevant as I am single.

Double Trouble!

What being single looks like to me

As a kid, like all the girls my age, I used to excitedly calculate how old I would be in the year 2000, that big year that represented the future, I used to daydream about what I would become, of course I was already aware of my potential and the fact that by the year 2000 I would probably be happily married with someone amazing, it  was simply a matter of time and that was only part of the dream. After all that’s what grownups seem to do, they get great jobs and get married.

Today in a grey day of the year 2015, I realise that not all grownups have to follow the norm, so like many out there, I too remain single, the years came and gone, love came and left my life and somehow I remain steadfastly certain that I would one day be reunited with that promised special person who gets me and doesn’t annoy me and if I wasn’t going to meet this rare person who doesn’t annoy me well then I will be OK and life will still have meaning and challenges! Of that; I am certain and have understood it very early on.

But it seems society hasn’t made its peace with it and doesn’t recognise my choice as valid or acceptable, to them I am a desperate damsel, a relationship reject or a potential home wrecker. I am often looked at with puzzlement, some friends pity my continuous single status otherwise referred to as “predicament” and constantly try setting me up with single men (that’s it, that’s the criteria), others secretly envy it (being single) whilst others have simply stopped inviting me to their parties because it proved difficult trying to box that single girl who turns up to kids parties with no kids and a bottle of booze! Especially when that said girl answers questions like “Where’s your little one?” with “I thought BYOB stood for bring your own booze not bring your own baby” .

But for the most part people seem to be outraged that I remain single yet don’t seem to suffer the consequences of it, I want to tell them to wait a few more years but there’s no fun in that!!

They want to see you suffer the dire consequences of your terrible ill-advised choice and suffer the harsh reality of being over 30 and single, after all that’s the only way they could justify their mistakes choices.

So instead of letting the married friends include me into their circles as a third or fifth wheel, I created my own circle, and believe me, the pass mark to get in is very high! Just recently I had to make it a bit higher based on the comments of some angry bitter unhappily married “friend” who asked if I ever did get marriage proposals, to which I said yes sure, last year I had 3 (poor sods).

“Three!!!” he said, “Isn’t that a too much??”

“Too much for whom exactly??” I said…

So he said “anyway, they’re just messing with you, you ARE over thirty remember!!”

POW! Double shamed, single-age-shamed with one sentence.

And this is the crux of the problem, people don’t seem to want to accept, or simply fathom, even in the 21st century, that a single woman might be quite happy not conforming to societal norms; that she might simply not want to be in a relationship or have a husband.

Singletons are not anomalies or glitches in the matrix of your sedated married minds; they are people with choices who simply took those choices. The End.

Dz-chick…happily single.

Not all who wander are lost

What I want to be when I grow up? Mmm…A pilot …or… a military doctor…I ran out of choices that I liked enough to admit I want to do and that I felt complied enough with the list of "things to be" when you grow up, the list that society has written in the fabric of its own flesh, a Doctor, an Architect and a Lawyer. That's it, everything else would mean you'd struggle through life and your mother would struggle to be proud in the midst of the social gatherings and crumble under peer pressure until financial capital or gain is attained in the hope of readdressing the situation and regaining some social standing.

Well, I never became a pilot or a military anything, what if I got it wrong? What if somehow I missed THE THING that I was supposed to do with my life? This thing that I was supposed to just know at the age of 16 when I still didn't work out my own body or what my little pinkie was for!

---------

Years later I still don’t know what my pinkie is for and find myself forever struggling with this intrinsic urge to go somewhere, to find myself as the hippies would say, the need to get lost, the need to wander…maybe my calling is to be an explorer!

I would pack my backpack and bare essentials, lots of tampons since I seem to have my period every two weeks (what's the opposite of menopause?), a strong deodorant, cotton wear, a map (of the world), some money and other stuff that would save my life or at least make it as comfortable as possible then go into the wilderness. I’d walk and walk for days, stop off to set up my tent, cook some dehydrated food or live off the land where possible (I can’t hunt or fish to save my life and I am scared of cockroaches), I write my travel journal and think about life, wonder what my family are doing and if they understand what I am doing and why?

I want to get lost so badly, start new, I dream of this often and everywhere I look, I see what I take as signs, I want them to be signs, like a divine intervention guiding me somewhere I am supposed to be…Every time I open my cupboard I give a nod in the direction of my ginormous hiking boots as if to reassure them that I didn’t forget about them and that I was working on it, I put on my painful courts (they’re shoes with heels for you boys) that give me bunions of indiscriminate colour and shape, and wish it was time to ditch the heals and don my safe hiking boots again.

I took them out for a walk, I wore them to the cinema, I even went to watch “Wild”, then I went home to watch “Into the Wild” on dvd, then read snippets of other wilderness books and explorer tales, by then I was so enthralled with the idea and challenges of getting lost that I managed to force myself to watch the excruciating “The Island with Bear Grylls” and if you can watch that, you can probably do anything ...probably (you know …because it’s so shit)!

But then I'll miss facebook, I'll miss all the attention from friends and strangers, attention that is wanted and sometimes provoked and the likes we're all seem to be getting addicted to albeit in denial about, we crave them like a fix we have to score. I guess I will miss my comfort and my friends and my family, or will I?

Perhaps I am just using this as a pretext not to take the plunge and disconnect, because I know my parents will never understand why I feel the need to do it, my parents who I use like a shield from the eyes of God like he can’t see what I do because they’re my protection, I will be forgiven all sins because they’re my salvation, I often wonder if I didn’t have my parents would my faith be stronger? What would stop me from going where I want to go but not sure I want to go?

My friends will probably think I am attention seeking, then I feel guilty for things I didn't do as per usual (pathetic really), then will probably start doubting myself along with my motives, I will doubt myself like I do so many things and will give up and blame it on society.

Why do I feel so shackled and unfree? Forever struggling with choices! Does everyone else feel the same? We who proclaim our freedom, are we truly free? I am single (yes still), I have no responsibilities that I can’t shake off, no commitments I can’t break from, yet I feel like to make the move would be to let down so many people and the pangs of guilt would kill me slowly, so I sit miserably still to make others happy and forget my dreams and wants, afraid of upsetting or offending others whilst ignoring my own desires and feelings! Resenting myself instead of others in that giving, generous and modest way we’re brought up to be, the way that eats at you slowly until there is nothing left but bitterness and regrets of not packing up when I had the chance to.

Dz-Chick...wondering still!

The impossibility of being Free

Lately, I let go a little, started to wear baggy trousers (God bless that elasticated waist), let my hair run wilder and spotted a few holes in my socks, knickers and now shirts, I let go!! I think this is due to the fact I believe I am naturally beautiful so basic grooming suffices, though I noticed men only  check me out when I wear my hair conformingly straight, it’s like I fit more into their mentally-etched image of the type of women they could consider suitable, because anything curly is considered foreign, wild or difficult.

One day on a plane back (to London) from Algeria, the guy sitting next to me asked me if I was Algerian. And that got me thinking, even if I looked painstakingly English (which I don’t), the very fact I was on an airplane flying back from Algeria could considerably improve the chances I was in fact Algerian. I acquiesced to his delight that I was indeed Algerian and to continue with the charade he said well you’re a bit Shoreditch! A free spirit?  Ha ha ha I said to him ”No I am Algerian, I can’t be a free-spirit” he didn’t get it. Then I went back to my nap from which he had yanked me to question me about the freedom of my spirit and I started to think about that ….and stuff!

A bit Shoreditch?? Moi? Well I never! Anyway, a long story not so short, that got me thinking about the nationally agreed Algerian look and how wearing baggy trousers did not fit into it.  But more about the very notion of “free spirit”, how it got highjacked and “shorditified” as if all the twats prancing around Shoreditch in those uber-skinny jeans or baggy trousers (depends on the level of Artiness or Lositude…or somink), blazers and beards are free spirits or true artists. You can’t be the free spirit you’re dressed to be if in essence you are actually conforming to the Shoreditch image. Conforming being the operative word here.

As an Algerian, who considers herself a creative being I realised I could never claim to be a free-spirit simply because I know to attain the status of true free spirit I’ll have to live a life of a hermit away from all societal coercion, religion or any political distribution of power and social tourbillon of conformity somewhere I can live off the land and recycle my own pee. But perhaps I can claim the title of a rebel, who doesn’t reject all societal obstructions and rules but fights some, rejects some and accepts some.

Besides the Algerian free spirit does not exist; “they” just won’t let it happen! They’ll use the weapon of mass oppression, the rolling of the heads with the lips in a downward line, they will laugh at your strange dress sense and curly hair or semblant of afro you’ve been nursing for the last 3 years with no convincing result; They’ll say it’s just a phase, your hair will be straight again one day, and they will attribute your beard to religious beliefs to save face with the neighbours or will coerce you into shaving it, it’s inevitable. If the phase lasts too long, then it could be a case of hormonal instability or it has already been decided you’re a sore loser and all your quirkiness is nothing other than a mean to hide your loositude (new word)!  It’s just not you, so stop trying to stand out and go get married or something, your peers got married and died already and you’re still wearing baggy trousers and leather bands on your wrists! Seriously!

So to recapitulate; if you have: A pair of baggy trousers or über skinny jeans, some kind of rainbow old t-shirt, quirky jewellery and rubber bands, curly natural hair and no make-up, wash your hair less than once a week, don’t own a deodorant, own a rusty old vintage bike, by vintage I mean stolen and have a jumper with a hole in it, have enough creativity to border on neurotic, the unexplainable desire to break rules and just the right amount of weird! Then you could qualify as a conforming free-spirit! But you’ll never reach full potential or what Nietzsche calls “The Free spirit by excellence”

What is striking here is that even the rebels, free-spirits, artists and anarchists who boast individuality and rebellion find themselves following a certain look, a certain lifestyle, they are manipulated and affected by the same ideas and images and flux into the same urban worm-holes and nukes and crannies of the city (any city) to live amongst other similar-minded people, to escape the more rigid, superficial and shallow sides of the city (again any city) only to find themselves delving into a not so different social tourbillon of conformity and end up pigeonholed like I was on that plane and put in the Shoreditch box.

Conformity and rebellion are part of or two side of the same syndrome, because both are reactions to the same pressure source, though there are those who secretly question society and conformity and there are those who secretly conform like the Shoreditch crowd and whatnots. So you conform secretly, when you straighten your hair until its burnt smell is recognised before you come into view, or when you iron your trousers (focusing on that line that parts your thigh in two -yeah you know who you are), you conform when you think being a free spirit is a way of attracting attention and is often a call for help! You also conform when you become the source of pressure!

Isn't it scary (and a bit boring frankly) to live your life exactly how someone else's or because someone else decided on the status quo and you are just living it within a line drawn by a parent, a teacher or an authority figure or entity?  And every time you try to peer outside of that marked line, you’ll be called a rebel.  It almost feels as though the “free spirit” label was invented to fool people into thinking they attained and are in fact allowed to attain a certain level of free thinking and being without any barriers.

So my point is (finally got there), you can be free to dress the part, but your spirit is far from being free as long as you are shackled by temporary possession and pleasures and can’t resist the tug of conformity and the imposing dams of society, you will spend your whole life a laver never turning into the butterfly.

Dz-chick….a conformist in denial…I think!

Wantotrism dissected

Refusing to get into the grind of the World cup plethora, I shied away from facebook (the source of everything), from all the pictures and videos of Algerian supporters in Brazil and their antics between matches, but it proved an arduous task and an impossibility to anyone with any remote access to any kid of media, to avoid Algerian supporters or the ever catchy Wan To Tré Viva l’Algiré

My first thought was that Algerians needed an excuse to celebrate in unison, as though they’re starved for unity, to be all as one rooting for the same goal, pun intended, then I thought there’s more to it than that, at the sight of the several videos circulating online of our hilariously creative and other narcissistic supporters (Yes you!), brandishing their flags, passports and chemma* to proclaim their right to be THERE amongst these strong nations of football.

Amongst so many things I read about THAT, was this brilliant piece by Dadathwen Eldhoudhi called “Le Wantotrisme pour les nuls” and was absolutely gutted I hadn’t thought of it first, but it turns out there is a whole and actual bibliography written on the topic for over 40 years now. Do your research!

I guess Dadathwen said it all for me but not quite, so I am presenting my first amendment – My vision is somewhat different…

The Wantorism is often synonyms with Watanism, it involves a state of unconscious and often indoctrinated patriotism that often centres around sporting events, mostly international ones, where the perpetrators get to dive head first into a much craved National Unity, where only three colours are brandished, Green, White and Red and only three numbers are chanted One, Two, Three in a slogan complied of Three languages “One, two and Three.  Viva l’Algerie”.  It’s the trinity of Unity.

This induced sense of unity; much like the false sense of romance, music envelopes you in when watching a Hollywood flick and it jerks a tear out of your tired, emotional and ready to cry soul, wantotrism brings back thoughts of struggle, of the martyrs of the war of independence, a sense of overdue recognition and merit.

Algerians are very much like that; soft-hearted and hot-headed. Willing to stand against any transgression, ready to defend Algeria, Arabism, Palestine, Islam, Africanism (depending on the adversary), Syrians, Afghani and Iraqis but not Berbers, Mzab or Twareg, but their music is cool, so the colours will be brandished and unity will be celebrated despite the unexplainable chasm secretly felt but often ignored, maybe it’s imaginary or induced a la Hollywood! You know who's to blame!

The Wantotrisme is the Un-Researched and unfounded sense of ownership and achievement, of overzealous pride of all things “originating” from Algeria, Zlabia, Schumacher, Andalusi music, Islam (The religion not the player), Idir, Tinariwen, Gnawa music, Cheb Khaled, not so much Cheb Mami, any kind of Tagine and Deglet Nour. All chant the co-dependant national anthem and glee.

Wantotrism came about and became a culture, an integral part of the Algerian identity, part hooliganism, part nationalism, funny but irritating, proud yet shameful but above all loyal to itself and to its team, winning or losing (unlike the English fans).  It’s a gene, a mutation, every Algerian has it, the syndrome manifesting itself in some not others.

Some known albeit not very effective antidotes is taking oneself too seriously or being a Judas, at ones own peril. You have been warned.

 Dz-chick….A Prouder Algerian!
------------
* a sort of disgusting sniffing tobacco

A not-so-stiff upper lip!

Was thinking the other day about how British one can become after a few years living here and realised it could really go either way, one can easily withdraw into oneself and refuse all signs of “Britishness” as a repudiation of the former self, some panic when they realise that they started thinking in English so they grow a beard and start wearing boxers, others refuse to speak English to their compatriots but mostly they grow more neurosis and despite their long London tenure they refuse to be labelled a Londoner for fear of what that might represent. Poor lambs!

Meanwhile in a parallel world not too far away, others who have passed the seven year mark have acquired a look, a special kind of look, an annoying mixture of arrogance, jadedness, know-it-all attitude and a hint (or two) of neurosis with a questionable and supposedly dry sense of humour.

These self-proclaimed veterans are also discernible through their slightly larger heads, dress sense and a politeness that is mixed between being a Brit and being wlid/bent Familia , you might not recognise yourself here or realise you’re IT; the following ought to make it easier;

when out of your own accord you’d get in line, any line and start queuing up for pure conformity, or when you say sorry more than 50 times a day, even when the man clearly jammed you with his shopping trolley in the supermarket, when you tut at people then become mortified they actually heard you or when you avoid confrontation at all costs even if it means giving up the last sandwich on the shelf or the last seat on the train! Doesn’t ring a bell? Ok how about this?

-          When you catch yourself trying to sound posh! Might be a good start to try to sound English first then upgrade.

-          When you think it’s cool to speak in a Cockney accent and evidently, you can’t hear yourself

-          When you have a specific and proven method to describe the geographical situation of Algeria using minimal words, you’ve done it so many times…

-          When you always roll your eyes and know when it’s coming “I have been to Tunisia and Morocco but never Algeria”

-          When you alternate between socialising with the Algerian and English crowds and using one as an antidote to the other

-          When someone says your name wrong and you can’t bring yourself to correct them, so forevermore you will be known as Rhonda!

-          When you always pronounce Algeria with a very deliberate A, to avoid the puzzled question “you’re from NIGERIA???”

-          When you are so tired of answering the same questions about your religion, country, race and weather, so instead you send links you have saved in your favourites

-          When you make every effort not to look Algerian (yeah you know who you are)

-          When somebody says you look Italian and you say “Ohh thank you”

-          When someone else says “oh but you don’t look Algerian” and you thank them with a beaming smile (yeah you know who you are too)

-          When you start matching your umbrella to your outfit, because you’re adaptable

-          When you work really hard at avoiding the Algerian stereotypes but people will still find you abrupt, direct, honest, and strong and other synonymous words they invented for rude.  

-          When you dread the Monday water fountain convo of “how was your weekend?” but go through it with a smile and a faint interest

-          When you feel inadequate because you only speak 3 languages

-          When you are tired of explaining such words as Darja, berber, Na3dine and why you speak french

-          When you feel pressured by the international social convention to do something on Saturday night or bare the guilt and shame.

-          When it takes you a few years to adapt to cooking a meal in less than 10 minutes, after you’ve watched your mother do in no less than 3 hours.

-          When you pride yourself in how few Algerian friends you have

-          When you are disgraced by people who pour hot water over couscous to cook it

-          When you think shop assistants are scary snobby little shits but like the rest of Britain and despite your alleged abruptness you’re too scared to say anything

-          When you hold back the tears after your haircut, but smile and say you love it

-          When you lower your voice on the phone when you see or hear another Algerian on the bus

-          When out of the whole empty train carriage, someone would sit next to you, out of indignation; you’d turn to the window and stare at it with loath shaking your head ever-so-slightly so that they don’t notice

-          When you insist on giving directions to anyone who asked rather than admit you just don’t know

-          When your sense of humour becomes a beautiful mix of random, dry with a hint of cynical

All this to drive the point home; you can take the person out of Algeria, but you can’t take Algeria out of the person.

Dz-chick…Dz-Brit with a proven track record ;)

Bent Familia Syndrome!

The other day, some guy for reasons unbeknownst to me, referred to me as “bent familia”*! I didn’t know what to do or say, my reaction astonished even me as I recoiled in disgust, I think it was the first time anybody called me that,to my face at least , I had never questioned if I would ever qualify as a bent familia or not but I always had a secret suspicion that I didn’t quite fit into that category.

I feel the prejudiced judgment this expression carries is too huge to consider it a compliment, so in response worthy of a 5 year old, I said “YOU’re bent familia”.
 

This way of complimenting a woman on conforming, on her ability to be a doormat, on her passiveness, it is the positive affirmation for adult woman, like saying to a dog or a toddler “good booooy” In an attempt to reinforce 'good' behaviour.
 

Congratulating her on the way she wears the jebba** and the way she tucks it into the sides of her knickers when she does the cleaning! Sexy! On the way she cooks her mother meals and in anticipation has learnt her future mother-in-law’s too, on the way she matches all her outfits and wears them all below the knee, on her miraculous and science-defying ability to remain a virgin, on the permanent smile she wears on her face, on the way she mimics old people and fits right in with them, on her robotic capabilities to sustain misogynistic male treatment and interpret it as Love.

Her favourite pastime, cardio and therapy are cooking and cleaning, her social exercise is gossip.

She is a Stepford wife in preparation.
 

The status of Bent Familia is elevated to the highest ranks of society ladders, high on a pedestal (with drawers for the detergents and the aprons). Something every girl aspires to be.
To be labelled a bent familia is considered the compliment, a high place of virtue every girl should aspire to reach, somewhere I don’t want to be, the girls up there are a tough crowd, I don’t fit in with them, they look at me with the same look I used to get from their parents as a child, like the bad influence friend, I want to jump out of this pedestal and look up their skirts, point and scream HA HA!

Ben Familia, is the good girl who played that role for so long, she forgot to stop acting, she can be a hypocritical pseudo-religious puppet who lives up to every silly expectation; she gets married between the ages of 23 - 28 and stays married, she doesn’t laugh like a hyena, she smiles but never shows teeth or makes noise over a 0.2 decibel, her hair is always smooth, tamed and in a the same colour (whereas you probably look like an electrocuted tabby); she matches her bag to her shoes to her bra and knickers (you don’t even match your bikini), she’s considered a safe asset, an innocuous choice (you’re a liability at best of times), she can make a 3 course meal out of an onion and an egg, she is extraordinary in the ordinary, her beauty is subtle, in her shyness and vulnerability; she talks softly never raising her voice (...I GOT nothing), there’s a term for it…Settouta!, she’s as graceful as a mermaid (half tuna, half human), she has a roomful of wedding/marriage (trousseau) items she collects since she was 12, she can pull off any djebba or kaftan, with a full cleavage and love handles that magically appear (you barely look like an adult), she is a virgin, she never had sex, her name is Monica Lewinski, her cousin and her neighbour Omar are her best friends, she never goes out when it’s dark, she wouldn’t upset her dad and brothers.
 

Oppressed by the patriarchy, It's the only way she will ever leave her parents’ home and the only way she'll keep a roof over her married head.  She has to put up and shut up.
 

She makes you look bad, you want to hate her but you can’t, she does no wrong, she’s the good girl and you are no match for her.
 

Dz-chick…bent A familia just not that one!

-------------------

*Literally it means “daughter of family” but figuratively “the good girl”

**A house dress (long, and preferably sleeveless to allow you to do the house work)

Day 4: Nostalgia is a woman!

Was browsing through facebook...stalking really, what else is there to do on a Saturday in Ramadan! what did I do before? I can't remember!

I stumbled upon a friend's Nostalgic comment, and reading the replies from her male friends left me puzzeled, they cited "Tagine at the kiosk at la Grande Poste", "Sandwich Garantita a 2am by les 3 horloges in Bab el oued", "Sardines beddersa a Telemly" and many more little rituals and habits, that I don't recognise, I don't know of, it's different to telling the stories of what goes on at the ladies local hair salon and compare and laugh with its counterpart the Gents barber, but this is Nostalgia, although the souvenirs could be personal to each of us, the general landscape of it should be shared, agreed on, like sunny blue skies and white buildings, days at the beach, Lemon sorbet (kreponi if that's how it's spelt) and friendly albeit curious people, it shouldn't be gender specific.

Wondered why it is that girls and boys in Algeria hold different souvenirs of home, like we didn't live the same lives (yes same - socialism remember!), as if we didn't go to the same schools and beaches and went through the same war, or maybe our souvenirs are similar but not the same;
Then it hit me, girls and boys do live the same events, it's just the view or perhaps more appropriately, the viewing platform is what differs, boys whiteness it from the street, up and close whilst the girls view it perched up on the balconies and windows! sequestrated behind shutters, "sheltered" behind doors and veils.

A friend of mine in Algeria, used and still gets revolted by the fact she couldn't leave the house after a certain time of the evening, if she craved a Coke, she'll have no way of getting it, she'll have to lump it and swallow it, but she remarked that had her brother craved a Coke, he'd up and go an any time and get himself one! Who said girls can't go out after dark? who started this unwritten LAW! This very same law that makes my nostalgia diffident from my brothers'.

To be continued....I am hungry now!

Dz-chick...Ramadan and nostalgia don't mix well!*

-------
*but I am fine, honest, I am fiiiiine

Ps: Mashallah

A few years ago, I went to visit a friend, she had 2 kids, I felt I needed to show some kind of interest, so I played with the little things, the boy laughed and giggled, the girl, still a lump of needy flesh only managed to squirm in her pram so I got away with saying “awww so cute, she really looks like a girl”, I paid attention to the kids and cursed my hypocrisy whilst she scrutinised me from behind the fridge, sometimes I caught her searching my face for any kind of feelings, feelings of jealousy, envy or something that would explain why I didn’t have kids or whether I envied her litter, or perhaps something that would make her feel better about herself?

I did my duty, said goodbye and was on my way, but later that same night I get a phone call from Yasmine informing me with panted breath that the kids have been quite poorly since I left. Shock horror. Are they sick? Do you want me to come? drive you to the hospital? What seems to be the problem? In my confused state, I tried to work out all the eventualities of what could be the cause of this but nothing; after all I am not a doctor, psychic or their mother.

Yasmine didn’t want any help; she just wanted to call me to inform me that since I left her kids, they have not stopped crying and paused for my answer, which was complete silence… confused,  I hung up the phone and texted her “Ps: Mashallah”

Mashallah, the new obsession of the year (which year?), the latest Wahabi import, the “Mashallah” that has to accompany every compliment, praise, every feeling and every expression. I don’t remember hearing it being used before, last year or a few years before that, maybe because I was younger or maybe because I don’t care enough about having children or carry enough envy to feel the compulsive need to say Mashallah at every little brat that moves in front of me, or every friend who has achieved something, or gotten engaged, married or went to Australia for a holiday.

You spot the Mashallahs everywhere on facebook, on texts, on people’s mouths, sometimes you spot someone from a distance gushing about someone else’s kid and you can almost feel the time to say the magic words* “Mashallah”. It feels like people feel compelled to say it or they’ll get blamed for everything that may or may not go wrong in the next year or two!  sometimes you forget to say it, sometimes you don’t feel the need to say it, maybe because you only said the kid was cute out of sheer politeness, still, people will think you’re envious or going to give them the evil eye (yeah), other times, you do say it and laugh at yourself because you think it’s such a geriatrics’ thing to say and nobody wants to sound like their grandmother, a pious thing to do and everybody knows that being religious is not über cool.

It’s not über cool to sound so religious, to say such words in Arabic, after all we’re Algerians and we have complexes to uphold, and there is no French word for Mashallah or Lahybarek, so we refrain from saying it, it ruins our image, I mean if you say Mashallah, you may as well wear the Hidjab. Hello!!!

And more often than not, when you do say it, the recipient of the Mashallah doesn’t seem to believe you mean it, so you catch them reciting in their hearts, you can see them concentrating on something, their little eyes fluttering and mouths moving like a slow reader moving his lips as he reads to himself, they recite prayers trying to build an invisible protective shield around them so you don’t touch them with your clearly evil compliment that will bring destruction…what else!

Others say it out of sheer convention, others expect it out of convention and because some people always have something nice to say to others, everybody else does and it can’t hurt to say a little Mashallah, it pleases the recipient and it clears you from any blame, everybody wins and it’s always nice to be nice. So I am going to give myself a Mashallah for getting to this conclusion, God knows we all need a little protection.

Dz-chick…combatting convention since 1985!

----------------

*it’s actually 3 words

Algerian Dad!

Sometimes when I am bored at work, I call home in Algeria to chit chat with the parents, for a recipe, a random question or for a laugh…

My dad is now retired, he never picks up the house phone, he wants to be called on his mobile to get some use out of it, he never picks that up either, he also never takes it out with him when he leaves the house. I had to explain to him that it was called a “mobile” for a reason but he ignored me. (Just now I called him to get more quotes out of him for this little post and nothing; nada)

When you do call him on his mobile, after he reaches up for it on top of the highest furniture in the room, he has to remove his glasses and squint to see who it is first, then by the 10th ring, he will dramatically struggle to slide it open, by then the phone call drops or the caller gives up.

My dad is a badass character, I heard from a reliable source that he has a foul mouth, though admittedly I never heard him say more than “saligou” in our presence, though everybody is missing a link according to him and we live in a mental country where the language spoken is screaming.

Since retirement, my dad got funnier, admittedly I find him funny because I live far from him, my sister finds him annoying at best of times, I guess there is nothing funny about living with your dad at the age of 30, it is neither easy nor ideal, perhaps it’s practical but let’s not encourage that.

Apparently the whole family including the neighbours and their dog is conspiring against him, they hide his hair brush (he HAS no hair), his glasses keep moving, he can never find them, he accuses mum of moving them on purpose and accusing him of suffering dementia. You can never laugh out loud at home, because the neighbours have nothing better to do than to listen to me laughing, he argued “but you laugh like a hyena”. Fair point.

When I visit, I am usually spared the wardrobe commentary, at least for the first few hours, then you can really tell he’s suffering and has to let it out,
“is this what they call la mode nowadays?”, “Those trousers do nothing for you ma fille”, “c’est pas tres elegant ma fille”, “you look like Gavroche”, once he referred to my Bermuda shorts as “kilouta”.
He doesn’t like my weird style, it’s not tidy or smart and he usually laughs in my face and this is me getting the guest treatment. Ahhhhh fond memories.

After about a couple of days, he forbids me from touching the crossword puzzles, because I can never finish them, apparently he only finds it adorable for the first couple of tries and I only prove him right, I am an apeutpriste, we are all Apeutpristes, the whole of Algeria is a nation of apeutpristes, including the people who make the Puzzles because he always finds “mistakes”! ya ya!

Everybody is out to get him and his money, the plumber doesn’t know what he’s doing, he’s a cowboy, “I will do it myself” so he does and makes a mess of it, latest damage; he put a hole in the brand new bath tub and taped it with duck tape and painted over it with white so my mum doesn’t see it. She did and called him an apeutpristes. Ah sweet justice, he didn’t eat her diner that night.

I know you’re starting to see the similarities…

But that’s just my dad; I always thought he was different from other perhaps more typical Algerian dads, but I am pretty sure he isn’t. When you think about it what makes the Typical Algerian dad?
Is it the gandoura he owns and only wears some Fridays not all, the fact he calls everyone a hypocrite particularity if they were bearded, or is it the fact he never cooked a meal in his life (Omelettes and BBQs don’t count), or maybe the respect he always manages to impose and the fact he can be uber annoying and his excuse will always be “because I am your father”.

I always find I have a different relationship when I am away from him to when I am under his roof; I have a fondness, love and respect for him that is unimaginable but it doesn’t make him mind his own business, be less annoying or less imposing, but he’ll always be loving, funny and my dad.

American dad: eat your heart out, Algerian dad remains my favourite character of all times, he gets my jokes and knows how to boil water.

Now; I am against (over) quoting other people unless it’s my dad or someone of great wisdom, but this is a quote I find to be very true:
“That is the thankless position of the father in the family-the provider for all, and the enemy of all. ~ J. August Strindberg


Dz-Chick….daddy’s girl! Always…

There is more to Safety in Numbers!

Oh look at me; I am an annoying inquisitive fly that won’t go away!

Go on squash me….squash me!

As a foreigner (God I hate this word) living in London or anywhere else, you find yourself part of a few social circles, the (back) home crowd, Algerian in my case and the other crowd, the one mixed with international friends including the host crowd i.e. the Brits, all your English friends who love you for your eccentricities, your funny accent and say things like “you’re so lucky you tan quick”.

The (back) home crowd is the one that after a while gives you social anxieties and feelings of forced competition, as though you have been thrown into a racing track you can’t climb out of, are forced to compete, you feel lost and confused but you have to run because everybody is and you know the right thing to do (if you’re bothered) is to beat them.

Feelings of resentment then start bubbling up to the surface, feelings of being forced to hang out with crowds where feelings of being constantly judged overwhelm you, judgement on what you wear, the way your hair curls, the University you attended and the degrees you have, then the job you hold followed by the salary you’re probably on as calculated through your CV, as viewed “secretly” on LinkedIn.

What university did I attend?

If I get to kick a man’s balls for every time I was asked this question. You will all be neutered (I am freakishly strong).

I was once travelling in Asia and I got into the subway, I took a seat on my train and was reading my book, when I raised my head to check where I got to, I found myself in the middle of a very distinct Non-Asian congregation, it looks like all the foreigners mainly European were drawn to the same train car, as if proximity to another stranger or foreigner of the same colour makes the culture shock less painful or brings home closer.

That got me thinking about Safety in Numbers, it is not about safety per-se as we were obviously very safe and our presence didn’t seem to phase the locals at all, quite the contrary I think the Chinese go out of their way to ignore you and pretend you’re not there, especially when you look lost or trying to get their attention, they then mutter something in Chinese, which I concluded was “stupid tourist”.

We are all attracted to our own; our identity is based on belonging to a family, to a tribe, to a group, a nation, a religion then to a social circle or an Ethnic minority as is the case of the Algerians in the UK or indeed the Europeans in China.

Which brings me to my next point, being abroad after a number of years does bring about nostalgic feelings and the need to belong, to join and to integrate the home (as opposed to host) community if there was one, listen to the same music, talk in the same language, tell old popular jokes, even certain words in your mother tongue become hilarious, because they become so distant and carry no sense that you can presently relate to, so you gather, laugh, say funny things like “3id Achajara” and “Abou Koulaita”, talk about old times or simply be in proximity of each other, brings a sense of community, of belonging and of safety that lessen the pangs of nostalgia and the coldness of the Ghorba*.

And this is how you develop the Algerian overdose syndrome (a special thought to a certain someone who probably invented this!).

If the community is small, you will probably suffer the same hangers-on and the regular social climbers , the unpopular and the followers who seem to be everywhere and all the time. You bump into them (I insist) everywhere, the unremarkable and the forgettable, you don’t seem to remember them or having seen them, only a feeling of annoyance lingers long after they’re gone, like the ever annoying desert fly that won’t go away, only when it does, you remember being annoyed but can never really put your finger on why (in the case of the fly, it is literally the case), this over-closeness and over-congregating habits can be suffocating and give you the feeling of claustrophobia.

So what to do when you overdose on the home crowd?

Pull away, get lost, hang out with your international circles, where you are just you, you don’t take yourself so seriously, you don't catch yourself posing (Yeah you know who you are) nobody calls you by your suffix (Arabs are massive fans of titles), nobody cares what you studied or where, you are just you and what you bring to the table isn’t determined by which University you attended but by your personality, your views and your sense of humour. Everything else is usually excess to requirement and they all know and accept you have just the right amount of weird.

In the end, communities are great, for public holidays and National celebrations, but once their presence is no longer serving its purpose, which we determined above if I must repeat myself, is reducing pangs of nostalgia and making the solo life in a foreign land more bearable AFTER a number of years or equally in times of crisis, if it no longer serves its purpose, then I ask you? What is the point.

At this point, I am hoping some of you agree with me, otherwise I should be asking myself another question: what am I still doing here?

Dz-chick…There is Safety in Numbers, perhaps, but I am an adventurous weirdo who likes odd numbers preferably fewer than 3…

------

Picture from: www.jedessine.com
*if you can translate it...go ahead