making sense

I wanna make sense of what's going on. What's going on? It's almost one year for me here in berlin. A year and one week to be exact. There is a lot of things going on. I had found out about a certain café a year ago and told my friend about it. He said it's exciting that berlin has all of those opportunities. I said meh. I do feel it now. Yes it's amazing. Berlin is full of opportunity. Too full maybe. To be the point where you are always unsure and insecure. That kind where you always fear you are missing out on something else. I wanna be in all places and fuck all men. 

But wait. I wanted to fuck Roberto. The weird german white guy with the blue beard wanted him too. The party was coming to an end. We were up there in that dark room. The music was amazing. Or it could have been the ecstasy. Me and the whitie were playing. I can't remember if his Turkish straight friend was there or not. And opposite to us Roberto was fooling around with this stupid and nasty looking white American with a hot body. We couldn't help but watch. They were watching too. The lights are going up. The music is going into the last loops. Don't turn it off please. We have to get out of there. The music is over. 

I catch him at the garderobe. It all went so easy. The Croatian shows up and he asks me if I'm in love with him. Are you jealous already? Why do you spank me on my ass? Why are you so charming? Is it because you're a Taurus? Is it because you share you cigarettes so generously? Is it because you immediately understand that being separated from my family hurts like hell? Is it because you gave me that gentle stroke to my knee? Is it because you kissed me firmly? Is it because you said I'm hot? Is it because of the way you said I'm hot? 

Could I have said no to that line of coke? Definitely not. Not after I had just shared my rape story. His questions were smart, but I don’t want questions. Not about my rape. Silence is better. You better learn that everybody. Don't ask too much, or better still don't ask. The whole night I annoyed his white privilege. I get a kick. What kick does he get out of it? Yes, it's the kick of having a brown friend. He praises me for being critical but he don't take criticism, don't own it. White people. Make whatever you make out of them. Hot sex. Intellectual exercise. My options are open. 

The 17 year old refugee kid asked me why do white old germans in their neighborhood stare at him. I didn't know how to answer. Should I say the truth? Should I make it lighter? He will know the truth. He probably already knows the truth, but just asking for reaffirmation. 

I declined the invitation to speak. I have to say no sometimes. You can't always say yes to white supremacy. There has to be a no. but you have to choose when. If you say yes then you need to play with it. I may regret this. But I also may have regretted speaking. They couldn't keep reassured. I didn't feel safe. Sometimes you need to take an act of self love, oder?

White  thirst concerns me. But is it just white thirst? Or is it a thirst for all men? And there are too many attractive men. I am pretty open with sex. I mean I am pretty open to different bodies. Especially if we meet face to face or in bars or in dark rooms. Online dating reinforces everybody's prejudices, including my own. But yeah, having the Syrian boy lick my feet at ficken was awesome. I don't know why. Also slapping and choking the white guy downstairs was good. But why did I feel sad on the way back home? Was it the om kalthoum induced schmaltzy? Or because Roberto hasn't written to me? Or because the white hipsiter looked cute. Or because I wanted to fuck more. Or is it because of the tension in my POC circl

revolution and hope

It feels like the revolution somehow, but can we compare anything to a revolution? But there are parallels. The buildup of hope, the trust in your fellow compatriots, but the oppressors were stronger, and the anxieties ran deeper. You open up and surrender to the role of a struggler, the role that tears you apart but also affirms certain privileges, regardless of how oppressed you are. The hurt is deep when the project/revolution fails. Can you ever escape the self blame? you called for it and encouraged people to stand up and fight but the losses were great. Whether on a personal or a general level. 

The disillusion sinks in and you yearn for despair. But still despair doesn’t come. Even though the hope is deeply shaken. You can't let go. What do you do now? Where do you seek refuge? Do you bury yourself with oppressors? At least oppressors are clear to you by now, you had to learn it and get used to it. But when the hurts come from allies, there is nowhere to run to. No safe place. No refuge. 

And that's why I had to escape, but there's no escape now. You're stuck. You're torn between the many places you think you belong to. Fuck belonging. Fuck hope. Fuck me for trying. Fuck me for not trying hard enough.

his chef d'oeuvre

He found it a perfect scene in the movie of his life, his long autobiographic chef d'oeuvre. That scene of him fucking a white german guy with no expression of his face. Maybe there's a little bit of contempt and carelessness too. It captured a lot of the dynamics in sex with whites. His unwillingness, his contempt, and his feelings of oppression. That scene came to him as he caught up with his Arabo-phile Iranian friend as they were high on weed. It was a conversation that was started by the Arabo-phile's question regarding his plans for the night after he leaves. The Arabo-phile then followed up with asking if he had sex on his mind, and if so, would it be white. When he answered yes, or maybe or something, the friend responded that it's not a big deal. As long as he's also taking what he wants, while giving back nothing,, no attention, no effort, no planning. Only his body. And if so, he should make the best of it, for example getting them to buy beer or cigarettes on the road. 

It made him curious that if that would be a paramount scene of his autobiographical movie, what would come out with other sex with whites experiences. Is it going to include a section with more subtle, hard to capture experiences? Like the conversation with that white Aussie. 

The one who actually told him he should write more, as a form of practice, or discipline even, to write up something before he goes to bed. Which is mainly the reason he's writing now. What is it with whites urging him to write? Is it another way for them to feel good about themselves, because it will excuse them from the task of listening if we write our oppression stories. That they won't have to lend us their ears?

Well that conversation with that Aussie triggered new feelings and experiences. The experience you get with a  whitie who knows the language, the words, and the lexicon of racism. The kind who uses that awareness as a way of flirtation. A way of making you fall. To seduce. It worked, or at least he thinks it did. He wondered what would come out of that dynamic. It would put a mask on all the power dynamics, it will make them look as if they're gone, but in reality they are never gone. They may just wear smart makeup to hide the blemishes and the scars. 

two conundrums: the two orientals and dating

two dichotomies i would like to discuss here.

first we look at the oriental conundrum. well, it sounds like it's about the east but it isn't really or is it? there must have been something about these guys being "eastern" that drew me to them. the eastern european for reasons related to their daily life experiences in today's germany. the fact that they're stereotyped and in some cases exploited and abused. of course that's a blank statements, we need those many times. his hungarian background gave him some appeal. we kicked off however in the wrongest way. he did stereotype arabs and egyptians in such an open way. somehow i decided to let it go and give him a second chance. this is how you get by when you live in white countries. one has to get laid, you know. the other being an ossi. and despite his bad english and his pride about being german, (wtf really), i saw some charm.

what was the conundrum about though? i think it's about giving and holding back. the hungarian being the one who gave. i held back. i was trying to give the ossi. he held back. i'm sure it is not this simple. i may be preoccupied by how white guys show and withhold emotions, and how that's related to their sense of privilege and entitlement. however, there is another thing that i couldn't escape. i got attracted to the unavailable one. the one he gives too little but expects me to always run back. and we do run back. that's the way we are trained. to fall when there's no giveback.

but then this first conundrum leads me to the second one. the one that goes deeper. am i dateable? or how do i deal and survive in this dating environment?

i remember the cairo days, when i grew more and more convinced that my feminist identity, and the fact that i wanted to extend that into my personal life, created a situation where i can't really deal with dating anymore. i remember that moment i was out on a date with this guy who did believe women and men are entirely different species and i was getting angry beyond repair.

i'm back to dating now, well it is more of an option now. it's a good thing, no? i should be happy or grateful, no?

now i feel that i am slowly coming to think that my refugee identity also stands in the way. i am bound to be seen as victim. at the same time, i am bound to be seen as an intruder. also to be seen as the exotic other. i don't feel optimistic that i can get the race thing out of the dynamic.

maybe i do have some saviour thing. maybe i wanna fix people. maybe that's why i am attracted to the ossi. or other white guys. maybe that's part of the appeal.

on the bench

Run, baby, run! You're late for your deutchkurs. Six fucking minutes until the next train? What will I tell this new teacher? I need to convince her I am the best student. How do you say excuse my tardiness in german? Ouf! The class is closed. There is no course today. Fuck me, how could I forget? I'm turning into a piece of the german machine.

What do I do next? Go to a museum? Lie down in a park and read this heartbreaking cross generational novel? I rest on a bench and think.

She drags her luggage behind her. Is she looking at me? Yes she is. She's even talking to me. She yells maybe you can help me. People don't talk much to strangers here. At least that's my view as someone who lived till the end of his twenties in Egypt. She casually sits next to me, I need to find a cheap hostel, she says, less than 20 euros.

I work my smart phone without much questioning. I am curious of course. Here's this hot blonde in hot shorts, just next to kurfurstenstrasse, the sex work neighborhood, with a bag and nowhere to stay. I don't ask where she's from. I don't ask about her job. Why the hell am I wondering if she's a sexworker? Hold your assumptions. I try to bury them.

Oh god, another stranger is talking to us. He comes and sits next to us on the bench with a glass of wine in one hand and a hash joint in the other. He waves the joint, and asks if we would like to share it, since we're sitting on the bench he likes to sit on. Without hesitation, I say thank you that would be great. She declines when I pass it on. He heaps on her advice and suggestions from his old experience as a Berliner.

He gets a call. It's my therapist, he says. He wants to change our appointment. He goes to talk to him. The therapist certifies his 'mental illness'. He gives the papers to the concerned authority. The authority decided he's not eligible to work. Another authority decides to keep him on state support. It's not much, he says, but enough to keep me alive and happy.

Is he homeless? I don't know. What's the fuck? Stop it with your silly assumptions. It's his rebellion against the horrible society that forces people to work and not live their lives fully, he says. He says he has friends on the streets, he goes to this and that bar, he takes coke or hash, no herion, and he's a fan of mushrooms, comparing the European varieties to the Mexican ones. Something about 

Grandmother and Grandfather shrooms. Sharing is wealth, he says. If you don't have someone to share with, you're a poor man.

He pulls the where are you from question though. The bubble breaks. The girl is  Polish. I am Egyptian. He says, a beautiful woman like you won't have trouble finding a place to stay. She says she's been to sharm el sheikh! Who is this girl? And why is she getting closer to me on the bench? Is she coming on to me? And why do I find this guy suddenly attractive? When he mentions his wife and lovers, I ask him how many are they.

white guys

We do have some moments of intimacy. Are they really? I don't know. That was what went through my head in that sudden somber moment on my home with my white friend. We were laughing at some sort of inside joke that we developed over our six months old friendship. and I thought to myself, is this what my life is becoming? Having fleeting intimate moments with a white guy? Where is the warmth of my friends back home? The ones you trust. The one your world shatter when they betray you. The one who you have also power dynamics with, but theirs don't erase your existence. 

I can't believe I am dating a white guy. Is eastern European white? He still fetishizes. Still misunderstands. Still labels. Why am I being with him? Because he likes me? Because I feel safer sharing a bed now? Because he accepted my hiv status? Because I like his ass? Because he pays for the fancy dinners I can't afford?

Is it even a good idea to date white guys? But where are my homies at? Why are they so hard to be found? Am I just looking in the wrong places? 

And what is exactly wrong with white guys? Why is it so hard being in harmony with them? Why is it that the first time I failed to get it up in my life was with a white guy? It was with this Frenchie who I thought was beautiful. But still I couldn't get that thought that he wants to fulfill his white fantasies of being ravished by the arab man. 

Maybe it is the arrogance. The all knowing attitude. The sense of entitlement. The knowledge that him and his ancestors oppressed and continue to oppress.

When they want you, it's a problem, because you're a fetish from Arabian Nights book they read in elementary school. And when they disagree with you, they can depress you by the sheer amount of racist bullshit they can come up with.

The entitlement things is quite intriguing. Is there something about growing up a white male that makes you view the world as a property? What's with this emotional aloofness? This non-availability. That guy I found beautiful had no quibbles expressing that he needs a break from making out with me. What? Why? Who says that?

Also who asks after making out if I wanna wipe out Israel?

Who makes out with you then say I wanna see you again, after he comes back from a two month long travel? And I should be waiting for him to come back and save me? Is that supposed to be sweet? Because it doesn’t feel like it.

How do you engage in a meaningful relationship with a white person? Whether it was friendship or a romantic relationship, especially the romantic relationship, when you're  a killjoy, a reminder of privilege, a disruptor of peace?

How do I keep passion and avoid the dick softening effect of their fetishization? Should the oppression/privilege dynamic serve as an aphrodisiac? Is that a sustainable situation?

I just feel I want to fight their white privilege back, even if they're a boyfriend. Particularly if they're boyfriends.

in the dark

should i talk about my nightmares? my utter disbelief in a better future? my damning loss of hope. i guess the depression is real.

this knowledge that progress doesn't bring "happiness" is all too real. what am i doing here? saving my life? avoiding arrest, torture and slow death? but is this life?

dark clouds scarecely interrupted by shy sun? attempts at conversation with different people that feel mundane and repeated? going to new places without any real excitement? hugs and intimacy that doesn't bring any peace of mind? people too scared to touch, to open up? sleep that doesn't bring comfort? familyless life? a ghost of deportation? a dreadful sense of boredom? a knowledge of worse days to come? a fear that the breakdown is coming and it will be ugly? knowing that it doesn't get better? anticipating many boring days to come? anticipating much worse racism experiences?

how do i go on and why? how do i put an end of it and why? that suicide vision that came to me at a club while trying to get high was too scary. why was it scary? it must have gotten to my mind for a reason. was it reading the hours? or that novel before, beer at the snookers club? the vision was really dark. grim. fatalistic. like my nightmares.

nightmares of being outed. nightmares of not being able to leave egypt. nightmares of renewed chances of goodbyes. but these goodbyes are harder, because we were more aware of the horrors to come. of the lack of redemption or reconciliation. of the extent of loss and the pain of separation.

fetishized

Well maybe getting fetishized is not all that bad. At least it gives me some sort of attention. 

Even from creepy white men. Isn't it better than being ignored? Invisible? Why does it bother me?

But there is something about being fetishized that is disabling, belittling, infuriating. Those body and performance expectations makes me feel weak, unwilling and unable. I feel I am reduced to a fantasized arab male. I feel that I am a European dream in their desperate search to feel kidnapped, oppressed.  Deep inside they know they're powerful they know they have exploited us. And they want to us to take their revenge. To be humiliated by us. Spat at by us. Penetrated by us. I don't fit that role. I don't want to play your games or make your fantasies come true. I want to be myself.

I am angry at you maybe. Maybe that's why I don't care if I infect you or not. You should take care anyway. It's not my responsibility. I don't think I'm infecting you out of rage. But I don't care if you get infected. Why should I?

I am angry at your entitlement. Your privilege. Your passport. Your healthy body and your long lives. I talk to someone who's visiting their grandma or grandpa. Mine are all dead. Long dead. Most of them died in their 60s. You guys don't know how lucky you are. Even if you do. You don't stop your interrogations of us. Your violent curiosity. Your suffocating generosity. Sometimes all we need is to be left alone. Let us be whoever we want to be.

My refugee flatmate came to the brunch. I only felt safe with him. I felt understood. As if both of us saw the world for what it really is while nobody else didn't. I remembered a message a refugee left at our refugee organization office in cairo. Or maybe it was a quote from one of the refugees I met. It was "refugees are the only sane people in this world". I feel what he was talking about now. We always hear things that make us sound like we're crazy, that our suffering is not real. That we exaggerate. That it will get better soon. Thing is it can't get better or much better because once you sought refuge somewhere else, something is broken and it will never be fixed.

And then I don't know what is going on with my body. Is it the meds? Why do I feel so dull and bored? Where is the desire? The excitement? Why am I juggling between melancholy and numbness? Why can't I feel anything sometimes? Reminds of Joe screaming to her first and probably only love 'I can't feel anything'. I don't want sexuality to be alive and kicking because I want to use it. Just like I don't want to have permission to leave berlin because I am desperate to get out of it. It just feel like a prison. Like being tied down by a heavy stone. Tied down by a body that is unable to relate to other bodies. That can't see the beauty in them. That can't undress them with my eyes. That can't chase them in the streets or the dark corners. That can't go for long cruises anymore.

Oh god I miss cairo cruising.