 It was easy, in a way, when I first got started. Because it was new, and I crave new. Something I have not done before. I have no clue how to do. It was challenging because I wanted to do it every day.
Then, it started to feel like a chore. A burden. One more thing I HAVE to do instead of I WANT to do. There were gaps. On days when I found it overwhelming - though my podcasts were simple and short. Oh, this "first world" problem I was facing. How ridiculous, superficial and self-centered. It's just a podcast about writing prompts. Something that was supposed to encourage me to write everyday. Why do I need encouragement to do something I love? Because although I love writing, I just don't always feel comfortable sharing my writing. Why? Maybe it's not always polished, good, eloquent, interesting. Ha! I thought. Really, you are taking yourself and your writing far too seriously. So I looked for ways to make the process easier to the bits that were holding me back.
Are you a writer? Are you writing? Subscribe to my podcast here and here. Love xxx Fadwa  My clear direction as an artist is focused inward: 1. Love of play, discovery, exploration and adventure. 2. Continuous learning and getting better. 3.Trying new things. 4.Self expression. I do have collections although in my mind they are more like obsessions. Not the right approach for galleries? Maybe. But for people? I think this is how our minds work.. craving novelty and inspiration and beauty and meaning .. and all of these have different meanings to everyone. So.. is this my lame excuse for not selling truck loads of my art? Well, I thought about that a lot. And the answer is no. Because the moment I try to push my work for sale, I feel forced to confine my ideas into predefined boxes and pigeon holes that immediately make me want to stop creating and crawl under my blanket. I won’t be famous? I know lots of people who survived that! I won’t have thousands of followers? Yep. People have survived that, too. Snd they’re happy. I won’t make money off my art? When I made my first mark as a kid, it was not about money. It’s just in my DNA to make these marks. I can make money doing other things. نصي في صحيفة النهار أول شجرة بعد الطوفان هذا صدرك، لم يزل يشتاقه خدي، لأنني أعرف الحياة قبل أن يصبح صدرك بحراً ميتاً، وقبل أن يصبح خدي سهلاً عند قدم جبلٍ بركاني. الحياة الآن تنتظر منا موتاً أو بركاناً. مع ذلك، هناك ثغرٌ بين جسدينا، يشعّ منها حلم. أتجروئين أن تحلمي؟ أتجروئين أن تحلمي؟ أتجروئين أن تحلمي؟ تسألني كل عشر دقائق، كمنبّه عتيق، مصدّع. كيف لا أجرؤ، ونحن نستلقي هكذا في العراء؟ لا يستر علينا شجر الزيتون هذا، بضع شجيرات على أرض أصبحت جرداء كصلعة جدّي. نسند ظهرينا على جدران تلامس السماء وتشطر هواءنا نصفين، ونقرأ هذه القصائد، قصائدنا، رغم أنها تسرق ما تبقّى لنا من أوكسيجين. أجرؤ، ونحن نراقب أحلامي تطفو على سطح البحر الميت، ولا تستر أحزاننا الثائرة التي لا تنام من شدة البرد. نبتعد أحدنا عن الآخر فترات، لكنك، في كل مرة، تعرف أين تجدني. ستجدني هنا، في صمت الجدار، أهرّب أطفالاً، وحقائب مدرسية. أخاف على الضفائر والأيادي الصغيرة. أمتصّ الرصاص والغضب والحنين والألم. أحفظ الحكايا وأحوّلها إلى رسوم. وستجدني هنا، تحت مدينتنا، نائمة. أتسرّب إلى جوف الأرض كجمرة خضراء. في التربة حيث تتكاتف الجذور رغم غياب الجذوع، وأسمع أنين الكبار والصغار، وكل من مات قبل أوانه، والساعات والأيام المسروقة، وأنتَ من تعرف أنها تجعل مني كائنين، أحدهما ظهره منحنٍ والآخر له ساقان تسابقان أشعة الشمس. وستجدني هنا، في هذه البقعة الصغيرة حيث نستلقي، التي لا نراها إلا بالقلب المجرد. هنا، حيث دفنتُ الأمل حياً، ووضعتُه في تابوت خشبي مزخرف. لملمتُ له رزم الخزامى وبعض القصص الطويلة، والشموع والكبريت، وقليلاً من الماء أو النبيذ... نسيت. قلت له انتظرني. لن تموت وحيداً. لن تموت جوعاً. لن أموت قبلك، فلا تمتْ قبلي. لكنني كذبتُ عليه. وكذبتُ على شجر الزيتون، عندما قلت لها لا أحد يستطيع قلعها أو حرقها، فهي من سلالة أول شجرة نبتت بعد الطوفان. أتجروئين أن تحلمي؟أ تجروئين أن تحلمي؟ أتجروئين أن تحلمي؟ تسألني. وأنا أسألك، أتعرف أن غداً سيّغذي رفاتنا زهور وفاكهة من نهبوا أرضنا؟ وغداً ستأتي الرياح، وتحملنا، فهل تسمح لي بأن أحلم بأن هناك من سيميز بين رفاتنا ورفاتهم؟ فدوى القاسم  نصي في صحفية النهار من التيه إلى القدس أنا. وأنت. وجدّك. وجدّك يعاني من فقدان الذاكرة. وكان المفروض أن تعتني به. أنت. وكان المفروض أن هذا مشوارنا نحن، أنا وأنت. وهذه البلدة القديمة دهاليز وشعاب، مكتظة بالشقاء. تفوح بالصمود. نسمع شهيقها وزفيرها، نمشي في شوارعها الضيقة، فأتذكر أصابعك حين كانت تداعب جنون شعري الأجعد. نتوقف أنا وأنت، كل عشر خطوات، لأن جدّك انسال علينا كذاكرة قديمة، جديدة. تمسك بيدي، نبحث عنه. نجده. تفلت يدي. جاءتك مكالمة. همستَ بغموض: سأذهب. عندي مشوار. وذهبتَ. وطال غيابك. وجدّك معي، وأنا لا أعرف ماذا أفعل به. تمشينا. كتب بخطواته رسائل كثيرة تطلب الغفران من كل سكان المدينة، نصفهم الثاني من الأحياء والنصف الأول في المقابر في انتظاره. في انتظارنا. وتحدثنا في أمور ضاعت. ضائعة. يضيع جدّك. أجده. ويضيع. يقع هاتفه من جيبه، ويتصل بي أحدهم ليقول إنه وجده. الهاتف. والجدّ: كان كمالك الحزين ضمن مجموعة أجداد خلعوا أسنانهم كي يلتهموا بشغف لا ينسى، بوظة بالشوكولا. أتصل بك. لا تردّ. وأنا لا أستطيع أن آخذ جدّك إلى البيت، لأن الجميع سيسألني، فكيف سأخبرهم أنه جدّ حبيبي؟ دهرٌ، وأنا وجدّك في مقهى، على شارع ضيّق، في انتظارك. ندخن الغبار. نتأمل كيف يقتحم الظلام استدارات حصى الأرصفة. نراقب هذا العالم كأنه سيجيب عن تساؤلاتنا. كيف أصبح جدّك، جدّي؟ *العنوان هو أيضاً عنوان لكتاب من تأليف والدي أنيس القاسم، نشره في العام 1965، أستخدمه هنا بإذن منه طبعاً.   1) I'm way, way too old.
Fifty-five this year - but thanks in advance to everyone who will tell me I don't look it. As I turn Fifty-five, I know who I am, although I am still learning. I know my worth, and this is not affected by social media. I know I can do much more, and my age won't stop me. I know I can look good without having to look young or younger or compete with anyone. I know appearance is important, but I also know appearance has its limits, and it won't cover up lack of confidence or compassion, insecurity or selfishness, or being overly judgmental and uncaring. I'd love to inspire younger women to feel good about themselves and their lives. To find ways to be stronger and more resilient. To look after their bodies inside and out, and to look after their spirits and their minds. 2) Not only am I old, but my sunnies are old, too. I got myself two pairs of sunglasses from somewhere - maybe five years ago - and, what’s worse, I still wear them. Same goes for my jeans, bags, shoes. Fashion magazines and social media tell us that our sunglasses (and other accessories) make us look put together, or they make us look rich, desirable, classy or many other adjectives we've been told we can gain by buying certain products. I'd love for my nonchalance for following trends and opting for buying and wearing what fits my way of thinking, my life, my budget, my common sense, my style, to inspire others to do the same. 3) I don't use much make-up. Never did. Use less now that I'm older. On the rare occasions I do get a manicure, the polish is ruined as soon as I get back to my studio and start painting. That and I don't go to hairdressers and spend hours coloring, blow drying, styling my hair. I'm not against makeup as a rule, I just don't like it being pushed into my face - pun intended. I wash and condition my hair, and leave it alone to dry as it might. I don't like that makeup and hairdressers are over-priced and out of reach for many women, yet women are constantly judged based solely on appearance. I don't like how women are manipulated into thinking they need so many products to look good (to men, to other women, in the corporate world, when compared to models). I don't like that most of these products are tested on animals unnecessarily because we already have enough products in this world. And I don't like brands that support Israel’s occupation and colonization of Palestine. I'd love for my minimalist approach to makeup and hair, and my preference to spend more time living: creating art, writing, spending time with my parents and family, meeting good friends, using my talent for art to share joy, laughing or simply being relaxed in my own skin, to be the influence I have. 4) I'm a rebel with a gypsy spirit. I'd like to rebel even more, as I still find myself with my foot soiled with a little more conformity and main-stream-ness than I'd like. I hate being told what to do, what opinion I should have, and what I should buy. I hate that the way men do things is the benchmark for how women should do things. As an artist, author, business owner, mother, wife, daughter, and a woman, I'd love to inspire more women to rebel, to trust their own way of doing things, to not continuously doubt themselves and to not believe there’s only one right way to do something. Have we debunked the "having it all" thing yet? I've done a lot in my life, but it only comes together over time, now, looking back. This is when we can say we had it all - one thing at a time, may things over time. 5) I'm not quite Western, not quite Eastern, and I'm a Palestinian who has not lived in Palestine (or Jordan). With more feet than I have in seemingly contradicting places, I don’t fit into that mold where people identify with me and I can influence what they buy. What this has given me, though, is a better understanding of how each one of us is simultaneously important and completely irrelevant in the bigger picture. It has taught me not only to speak more languages than my own, but also to understand what someone might mean when speaking his own. Not to be so quick to judge. That we have more in common than we do differences. And although it’s not always easy to understand someone’s joke, their pain is always understandable because it mirrors our own. I’d love to inspire other women to have their feet everywhere, and not to worry about falling or failing, and to be more concerned about being open to their humanness and the humanness of others. xxx Fadwa Thank you Margutte, the Italian online magazine for literature for translating my text "My Boobs and I" into Italian and publishing both in their magazine. Read the full text in Italian here, or read the English here. IL REGNO DI CLIO, OFFICINA NARRATIVA Le mie tette ed io FADWA AL QASEM Semplicemente non mi fanno sentire me stessa. E per questo, sono sempre sola; loro sempre con me. Se provo a dimenticarle, ad essere ignara della loro presenza, fallisco. Il movimento più banale porta a contorsione, scuotimento e tremolio. E con lo sbadiglio di ogni nuova luna crescente, le sento ingrandirsi, mature, appena dolorose e sempre più delicate.  I am grateful to Margutte for translating my poem "Silence", you can read the Italian here. If you prefer English, here it is below or read it on Margutte's pages here. Silence Does my silence Fill the gaps Where your fingers poked holes Into your beautiful being? Does it alleviate your pain your sorrow your guilt? Then I will be silent. Does my silence Ooze out of your ears your eyes the pores of your skin Cleansing impurities – I swear to you – were never there? Then I will be silent. Does my silence Engulf you protect you blanket you like a new born babe? Does it drown the angry voices in your head? Then I will be silent. Does my silence Make you forget I am here? My love; if it’s too heavy? My touch; if it’s not soothing? Does my silence Now sing to you like birds? Is it palpable like a stairway you can climb, climb, climb and fly? Then I will be silent. Is my silence precious priceless worthless? I cannot tell. You have shut yourself away But if that’s what you Need To thrive Then I will be silent. © Fadwa Al Qasem Dubai 8 May 2017  I am delighted to tell you that Margutte, the online Italian literature magazine published a short interview with me and a couple of poems. Thank you, Margutte. Below are my poems in English. If you'd like to read the interview and poems on Margutte's website, click here, for the Italian, click here.
 سعدت جداً بالتعرف على الكاتبة الفلسطينية عبير علان وإليكم نص اللقاء الذي أجرته معي. شكراً لك عزيزتي
بداية يجب أن أقول لكم ما تتوقعوا عن شخصية فدوى القاسم… لا تتوقعوا/ لا تتوقعن شيئاً! فهي -كما تسمّي نفسها- غجرية الروح، وهذا بحد ذاته يعني معها قد تتوافد المواضيع الممكن التحدث فيها ومهما كان مضمونها… شخصية ممتعٌ الحديث معها وهذا ما يفسر تنوع الحوار هنا… وسأصدقكم القول بأن الوقت كان يمشي أسرع من حديثنا.. لحين داهمنا على غفلة لتكمل كلّ منّا يومها فدوى القاسم هي فلسطينية الأصل، كندية الجنسية وطرابلسية المولد (1963)، لاجئة بالوراثة، وغجرية الروح… كما تعرف عن نفسها في كتاباتها ومن ضمنها كتاب رائحة الهيل الذي يعكس قصصاً من هنا وهناك… سأدع تفاصيلها لكم لتستكشفونها... المزيد هنا |
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