W.C, December the First

By Razan Al-Ghazzawi

By Razan Al-Ghazzawi

Razan Al-Ghazzawi
December the first
W.C.

I am a smoker. I smoke one cigarette everyday; yet, people don't like to call me a smoker. People are the kind who would do anything to make you lose your sense of being. I do smoke so I am a smoker. When you hate someone you don't like to see him around, so you hate him. You might be asking what I am trying to say here, nothing important, but to show you that life is easy, you need not think twice, you need not search for new religion or ideology, you just need to be yourself no matter what people, those weird weird creatures, say.

I am a realist. I do what I do, and I do what I do. But what I really would like you to know the most about me is that I fight (really hard) for what I stand for. For example, I broke up with my boyfriend because he once asked me to quit smoking. He knows very well that I am a smoker, so I don't really understand what he expects me to be if not a smoker, what? A quitter? Yeah that's what I did, I told him Marwan dear, I love you, I am crazy about your hair and neck but I don't think we should be together anymore. I felt good about the way he reacted, he slapped my face and crashed his leg and arm while flying with his new motorcycle. He was a pretty violent young man, my ex. It took me two guys to get over Marwan's sweet wild kisses. But I had to leave him, for I am a smoker.

My brother once laughed at me for smoking Marlboro, that if I dislike America then I shouldn't smoke Marlboro. But the fool couldn't see why I have to smoke Marlboro. That damn company is the only one in the whole wide world that can guarantee not quitting smoking. I had to be a smoker; I had to have that sense of satisfaction whenever I forget who I am. Oh! Well of course! I am a smoker. See my dad has this habit of calling me different names many different times: loser, stupid, empty, lazy, b****, etc. And sometimes he calls me nothing. So I get really confused, and spend nights smoking and thinking, who the hell am I? Then I noticed that the cigarette is my only companion whenever I go and whatever I do. So I decided to be a smoker. I don't know where the cigarette will lead me, but I decided to take my chances.

What I did next is that I called all the friends who smoke and told them that I have an idea on my mind. When we all met I suggested founding a party called "Keep Smoking." We all agreed that the media is our bitter enemy, along of course with our families and friends, and the government comes later on the list and I'll explain why later. We designed a nice web site in which each member has the democratic right to write her/his opinion about the party.  It is amazing how many smokers there are in the Arab World: Jews, Christians, Muslims, and atheists. They all have one common belonging: the cigarette.

This party was my life, my identity, and my lost self. I held weekly meetings to discuss any plans suggested or problems. Once we had this problem with the government who were "worried" about the increasing number of our party that it might be dangerous if we have political ambition to take over the regime one day. Anyway, what I did was that I sent some girls carrying Cuban cigars with them. The government was our dearest ally.

I was in charge. Everybody liked me. I was responsible for everything and everybody. One day I learned from a Jordanian comrade that an Arab Israeli comrade, who joined us recently, wants to meet me. He wants the meeting to be in Jordan and on his expenses, the thing that I liked the most. So I went to Jordan and met the guy.  Azmi is a Jewish Iraqi young man, age 28, and single, and of course he's got some job. His father (whom he dislikes) owns some shares in a hotel in Amman where I spent the night. I recieved his call from my room and said that he'll come to take pick me up for dinner at seven. It was still three o'clock, so I slept till it was seven thirty. He was waiting for me in the lobby. Little surprised that I smell weird and look weird too. But he was a babe. He was wearing one of those Palestinian scarves. He is tall and sexy, and that was enough for me. He clearly knows how to treat a lady, or me. He has this fancy car and took me to that fancy restaurant then a pub. Lucky me, he did not smell that awful smell, perfume, instead, the cigar smell was hovering all over him, which made him at once a man.

'So, what exactly you want to see me for, comrade?' I asked.

'I want to know the person who made my life easier', he said.

I knew exactly where he was going with this.

'And how exactly did I do so?'

'You made me think clearer, things suddenly appeared clear to me.'

'Really?'

I acted like I am really interested, but I had one thing on my mind.

'How?', I asked.

'What would you like to drink?' was the reply.

'Um, Scotch.'

'Just my favourite.'

We drank and drank, we danced and laughed, and of course we smoked. Dinner was delicious and I couldn't wait for dessert. He drove me to the hotel, took my hand and kissed it goodbye. I didn't like it, I asked him to walk me to my room, he looked at me (really weird look) and before I asked him about it, he took my hand and up we went to my room. He was the one who opened the door for I was too drunk to do so. Inside I wanted to look sexy, so I went to the kitchen and pretended that I was preparing some tea. He followed me, held my both hands, and took me to the bedroom:

'You must go to sleep' he said.

'No.'

I took off his jacket, but he stopped me and made me sit on the bed.

'You must get some sleep, you're leaving tomorrow.'

'I still can have some fun.'

He smiled, and gave me that look again.

'What's wrong? Why are you looking at me this way? Why did you bring me here? What the hell you want from me?' I said.

'I'm sorry you're right. I know, good night, and have a safe trip' was the reply.

He turned his back on me wanting to leave. I followed him and grabbed him.

'Am I that ugly you son of the b****? Look at me! Am I not that good for you? Why did you bring me here? Why? tell me! Why?'

'The cigarette!'

His voice was really loud that I forgot that I was angry. He looked weird, he was turning red then yellow, I'm not sure. He was walking through the room, nervous or angry, stood by the chair, sat on the chair, stood up and walked towards me, his breath reaching my eyebrows.

'In your website, I was reading this slogan: "Arabs.. Belong to This...the cigarette." You are a pathetic Syrian who got nothing better to do or to belong to than a cigarette..that's what you are..a cigarette..you die when you're burnt..you're faithful to your own self..you're only living for the smoker..you're a damn cheap commercial!

'Do You know that there are Israelis who are boycotting Marlboro, they discovered new roles the minute they lived with Palestinian peasants, foreigners coming to help the Palestinian Cause..stop killing..stop discriminating..people are feeling desperate for not finding people who still believe in their cause..people are like you..servants for themselves..' he went on.

I was stoned.

He grabbed me and took me back to the bedroom then to the bathroom. He took off his clothes and turned his eyes right into mine.

'Look! This mark is caused by the Israeli army when I was thirteen. I was kissing my neighbour next door, I spent years dreaming about that sound. And this! This here was made by a Palestinian who exploded himself on my graduation day. We were having a party, I saw my friends dying in front of me, I almost died that day, I wish I had. I couldn't decide who to hate, and who to belong to. I have friends from both sides and I have enemies from both sides too. I didn't know how to think, memory was just too loud. I have no sense towards Israel, neither towards Palestine, all I feel is guilt and defeat. Then it occurred to me to go back home to Iraq, but Jews are not welcome there either. Then I came across your stupid comment and everything suddenly appeared very clear. I can't resemble people like you! I have a cause to fight for, I have a question to look for, I have something I didn't see before.

'What?' she asked looking at his shirt thrown on the floor.

'Ahead!'

He took that shirt, his pants and his scarf with him. I saw him leaving the bed room, the living room, he's gone.

She turned to the mirror, she saw her black eyes and white shadows.  In the mirror that night, she saw what her dad saw in her, a crying nothing.