My Enchanting Sereeb

Saturday, August 02, 2014

Yes, it is happening :)

Yes, I'm going to publish my first collection of short stories. I have got a deal from a publishing house in London, UK. To say I'm delighted, over the moon, is an understatement.  :) 

Now, I need to sit down and work on the stories. Rewrite some, polish some and add more. The book will be out in a year or so, inshallah; it depends on how fast I finish the polishing, rewriting, etc.

This is a dream come true. It will enable me to carry on living off the grid and writing my stories. It will help me have a voice and make a change. I will be loyal to my principles: green, simple and ethical living; protecting and campaigning for protection of the environment; boycotting and shunning all the franchises, big cooperate companies, supermarkets, chain-stores/shops/cafes, etc; fighting consumerism and capitalism; setting up a small free-of-charge retreat on my tiny small-holding for anyone who needs a break; and, and many more.

I also vow that I will not be making or keeping any profit; I will just keep what will help me survive (you know, even if one lives off the grid, solar panels break down and need some repair, seeds need to be brought, etc) and the rest will be donated to the needy. I will not go for book signing tours or endorse or advertise for any body or entity. I will not wear expensive clothes and paint my face with dreadful makeup and give interviews or leech on any literary festival. I will be the literary Banksy but a green and ethical one, who makes no profit and fight for the environment and all the deprived souls, humans and animals alike.
Alrightie, would you excuse me now! I need to polish off this plate of my celebratory cake (homemade, organic and 100% ethical) and then tackle another story. And dance a jig too :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) 

Thursday, July 31, 2014

Shame on us all

What is happening in Gaza is a genocide. Shame on the world and to hell to all the governments.
Israel is a terrorist state, an apartheid regime. Zionism = Nazism

Saturday, July 05, 2014

The Bastards

Anyone who supported or watched or followed or cheered for the dreadful World Cup is a heartless bastard/bitch, a sub-human who doesn't give a shit about other people's suffering. And if he/she doesn't know why I'm saying so, then he/she is painfully stupid too. May you grill in hell, inshallah.

كل من تابع و شجع مباريات كأس العالم هو/ هي شخص عديم الإنسانية لا يحس أو يشعر بمعاناة أخوه الإنسان. هو/ هي في نظري شخص أناني جشع مقزز، ليس جدير بالاحترام. اللعنة على كل من لا يشعر بمعاناة و حاجة الغير، اللعنة و الخزي عليك إلى يوم الدين.

RIP Salwa Bughaigis

Sunday, June 29, 2014

RIP Salwa Bughaigis

They did not just assassinate Salwa Bughaigis, but also the hope inside me. The hope of true democracy, dignity, equality, Human Rights, Animal Rights, protection of the environment, love, peace, all things beautiful. 

The least we can do for now is to keep her memory alive and never forget her. She died for all of us. Please sign this petition for Justice for the Murder of Salwa Bughaigis.

( RIP Salwa Bughaigis, this will be added at the end of every post I write, wether it is related to Salwa, Libya or not, to keep her alive, for as long as I can.)

RIP Salwa Bughaigis

Sunday, June 22, 2014

Story of Stuff

Please watch this to the end. I do hope it will make you think and change your life. The situation has become even worse since the making of this short film.

Here is the link again, just in case.

Saturday, November 16, 2013

The Shopkeeper from Misrata

 An extract from my story: The Shopkeeper from Misrata 
Grandpa Miftah occupied a room in the outer men’s quarter of the huge derelict house. The house was divided into two quarters, the outer one known as the men’s quarter and the inner one known as the women’s quarter. Men and women did not mix in that household. Grandpa Miftah’s room was small and dark, as it had no windows. The dim daylight was provided by the small front door. Its walls were painted white and a huge antique clock hung on one of the walls. Grandpa Miftah depended on that clock to tell him the time. The timber beams of the ceiling were decaying from leaking rainwater. They also hosted a nest of swallows, which Grandpa Miftah refused to be taken down. His white iron bed, which Hajj Salim sourced from the Grand Hospital in Benghazi, was set against the front wall that faced the small door. A tiny hard-grained and chipped table nestled between the bed and a leather armchair. The table hosted his radio and a spittoon, which Laila emptied every morning. The room opened into a semi-dark vestibule that led to the old market.
Grandpa Miftah never left his room or his bed or even sat in the leather armchair, which was permanently occupied by Sidi Hamad, a dear friend, companion, and neighbour.  He left his room only on Fridays. Laila would bathe him in the small bright bathroom in the men’s quarter and after the bath she would put a small charcoal brazier burning with frankincense under a chair where his Libyan costume was carefully folded. When the bath was over, she would sprinkle him with rose water, adjust his dark glasses, hand him his mahogany stick, and lead him by the hand to the outer vestibule where Uncle Hassan would be waiting to take him to the mosque for the Friday prayer.
Outside in the market, Uncle Hassan would lead Grandpa Miftah trying to avoid the heaps of rotten vegetables, broken boxes and the animal droppings that littered the street. Unlike his sullen son, Grandpa Miftah always wore a cheerful countenance and greeted the shopkeepers with a smile and a gentle ‘Marhibtain my brother’. He particularly showed great affinity towards Musbah, a shopkeeper from Misrata. Grandpa Miftah, a Misrati himself, felt the need to show his support for Musbah, who was harassed and bullied by the other shopkeepers. The main cause of the bullying was the fact that Musbah was from Misrata, whose inhabitants  were renowned for their selling andm buying skills. He was viewed by the shopkeepers, who called themselves the Berqawis, as a stingy fat leech from Misrata, who didn’t belong to this part of the land. The other cause was the fact that Musbah’s business was thriving. Grandpa Miftah tried his best to console the injured Musbah and calm down the belligerent shopkeepers. He was immensely liked and highly respected by all the shopkeepers. They listened to him and admired his knowledge and wisdom. They also feared his reproach and power, despite his blindness........................... to be continued 

Sunday, September 01, 2013

An extract from a story

Here is an extract from my story:  El Tumi's girls

The Eltumi family had five boys and three girls, their ages ranging from twenty-five to three years. The three eldest boys left school before high school and worked with their father in the farm while the three lumpy girls, Sana, Iman and Samira, excelled at school – such was the case of most village girls in that part of Libya. The remaining two young boys were still struggling at school. Hajj Beleid Eltumi was a man of middle height, with a thick body and fine grizzled moustaches. His thick hands and sandy-haired chest were blotched and wrinkled from over exposure to the sizzling sun of Libya. He was a tough, harsh-tongued man, whose thick and fuzzy eyebrows, which looked like two caterpillars stuck above his eyes, made him look even tougher and meaner. His wife Hajja Halima, who had never been to Hajj, was big with broad shoulders, wide hips and enormous breasts that jutted from her under-arm nearly to her waist. Young boys in Taknis called her ‘the milking cow’. Her columns-like legs were riddled with veins and her large soft pinkish face looked remarkably like a cow’s udder. Besides cooking tasteless and greasy food and screaming at her children like a banshee, she milked the three scrawny family cows. Every morning she would cross the field slowly, letting out soft ahs and ohs, pass by Sayyid’s room and enter the cows’ barn, a milk pail in one hand and a stick in the other. Sayyid always greeted her politely and retreated back to his room, unless Sana was with her. This was how Sayyid got to know Sana and fell in love with her. She was passably ugly, very short and dark like a ripe piece of date from the small desert village Jalu. Her bulbous nose spread above her lipless mouth, which was practical-looking rather than mean or unkind, like an enormous hawk moth. And on the pretence of ‘helping with the milking’ she accompanied her mother almost every day. In the beginning both mother and daughter were oblivious to Sayyid’s behaviour but later on, the mother still oblivious, Sana became aware of his bold gazes and promising smiles. For a long while she didn’t reciprocate the smiles, just got on with the milking, then she did and started looking for excuses to linger outside the barn: the cow’s tether got worn out and she needs to find a new one; she thinks she just heard one of the young boys screaming; she just saw a big nasty rat and was scared. And between milking and dodging preying watchful eyes, the love story between Sayyid and Sana blossomed. They managed to keep it secret for a good six months until one day Sayyid lost his guard and committed the ultimate mistake. He sent Sana a letter with her youngest brother Ahmed. The letter ended up in the hands of Mr Eltumi. That night Sana, beaten to a pulp, was locked up in a room and told she wouldn’t see the daylight ever again. Her schoolbooks were thrown into the clay oven and her navy-blue school uniform was shredded into pieces. Her father gathered the eldest boys in the men’s sitting room for an urgent meeting then the three boys got into their battered Toyota truck and drove off, leaving behind a trail of dust and fumes. ............
 To be continued.