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This is the blog haven of Syrian author Ammar Abdulhamid, the place where he gets to express his thoughts and vent his frustration with regard to the ever so pretentious march of human folly. In this, he seeks to tread ever so carefully and lightly so as to avoid the usual pitfalls of megalomania and cynicism in which authors living in feverish times tend, customarily, to fall. Will he succeed? But then, and with an introduction like this, perhaps his fate is already sealed.

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Name: Ammar Abdulhamid
Location: Silver Spring, Maryland

Ammar Abdulhamid was born on May 30, 1966 to a well-known artistic family in Damascus, Syria. Ammar spent an important part of his life in the United States (1986-1994) studying astronomy and history (he graduated from the University of Wisconsin - Stevens Point in 1992 with a BS in history), and purging himself of his religious zealotry. He returned to his home-country in September, 1994 and was forced to leave on September 7, 2005 due to his increasing and vocal criticism of the ruling regime and its president. In 2003, Ammar established DarEmar, a publishing house/NGO dedicated to raising the standards of civic awareness in the Arab World, and launched the Tharwa Project, a program designed to address diversity issues in the region. In 2001, Ammar met and married Khawla Yusuf (born on September 26, 1968), a Syrian fashion designer and activist. The couple currently lives in Silver Spring, Maryland with their two children: Mouhanad (1990) and Oula (1986). Ammar is a Non-Resident Fellow at the Saban Center for Middle East Policy at the Brookings Institution in Washington, DC, and a Fellow at the International Institute for Modern Letters, in Las Vegas.

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Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Ordinary Life!

It would have been quite interesting indeed to witness an actual transmogrification taking place in real time had it not been so personally relevant. As such, watching our simple lion cub as he metamorphoses into a full-fledged ass is no fun at all.

Nor is it any fun to watch, helplessly, and from afar, one’s own 60-something mother as she suffers from the pains of a broken shoulder blade, and one’s own 30-something friend as he goes through the anguish of chemo-therapy.

If only I could eat your cancer, my friend…

If only I can be your shoulder Mother. But look how important my ideals have made me! I should have been just another willingly naïve reformer working for the benefit of the regime-cum-country, I guess. Or just another hapless citizen groveling in some dark corner somewhere constantly licking his wounded pride, constantly trying to reassemble his all too shattered sense of humanity and dignity.

But no, I just had to be that loudmouth idealist-cum-narcissist-cum-messianic-buffoon, didn’t I Mother?, and end up being quite useless to the people that mean everything to me, in the hope of becoming of some use to people who wouldn’t give me the time of day, and most do indeed hate everything I stand for!!! That’s a pretty smart deal, don’t you think Mother? You must really be so proud of me lying motionless in your bed waiting for what you know cannot happen at this stage.


The funny thing, the really painful thing, is that I know you ARE proud of me, of all things, of all silly things.

Now I know that life is not supposed to be all fun and games, but lately it has become a little too much of a pain in the everywhere to be worth any Goddamn thing.

I truly desperately long these days for that place out there, that place that I can only hope that it does indeed exist and that it is not a hapless figment of my longing, where I can, I sincerely want to believe, live, in every sense of the word, Beyond Good and Evil and beyond Time and Being, to make it a place worth living in, worth spending one’s last few years in.

In the interim though, there is simply no escaping the necessities, absurdities and sheer pain, as ennobling as we wish it to be, of ordinary life.

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