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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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Friday, April 07, 2006

Falling Apart!


No, I have not abandoned blogging in favor of politics, just as I had done with my literary ventures. No, I am not going to allow politics to take this part of my life as well. It has already taken too much.

Indeed, its latest victim seems to be my health. This is, at least, what the doctors seem to implying. Judge for yourself:

“Well, let see here, all your blood tests came back negative, and so did your urine tests. Your x-rays show nothing wrong with any of your vital organs, and you seem to have a pretty healthy heart. Still, you have a temperature of 105 and the blood pressure of a comatosed lizard (i.e., ridiculously low blood pressure, well-nigh zombiesque), so, are you under some kind of pressure????”

“Well, doc, let me put it this way, I have been here for less than 36 hours, and I have already missed 9 meetings and/or events, two of them at the White House, does that tell you anything?”

And I wasn’t even trying to impress.


The truth is, the last week of March was supposed to be one of the busiest weeks of my life, serving as a prelude to what was supposed to be one of the busiest month in my life. But, as fate would have it, I ended up spending the Glorious Week divided between home and hospital, and the Glorious Month is shaping up to be quite the ordinary month, albeit by my rather not too ordinary standards. For as soon as my temperature stabilized at the somewhat acceptable level of 100 degrees, I traveled to Chicago, and now that it is back to a normal 98, I feel comfortable enough to embark on a tour that will take me to South Carolina, Nebraska, Iowa, Chicago again, and finally New York. No, No pressure, no pressure at all.

I guess I’ll sleep in May.

So, between now and May, don’t think any less of me for failing to blog as regularly as I would like, my blogoholic soul is full of the same old yearning for the keypad, but my new workaholic, and pretty loathsome, self may not give me the time to appease this yearning.


So, I will continue to fall apart over the next few weeks, and hope to survive long enough to start picking up the pieces in May when, and in preparation for celebrating my 40th birthday on this bedlam earth, on May 30 to be specific, I will have to begin implementing the new work philosophy that I am gradually developing in the back of my mind even as I type these pearls of folly of mine.

Heretically yours,
Ammar

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