***Caution!!! This post goes there. Gramma, PLEASE STOP READING NOW! I try to keep all adult topics to a minimum, but this gorgeously crafted (and highly fictional) piece was too brilliant and hilarious for censorship. Not to mention, I have heard Ben’s crazy stories and I know he would use all methods of rioting, boycotting, etc. to oppose my censorship if I tried to do so. Enjoy this piece but take it lightly.***
“Suck my dick”. Never had the words been spat with such vitriolic affection. But as Sara used those 3 most eloquent lexical items in response to some simple request it was clear that no English Language sentence would ever sum up her character, personality and life philosophy with such aplomb. It was also clear that my guest column on her blog had been given the clearance tobe rated 18. Which is probably referred to as “Rated R” in that strange backwater of a cultural wasteland that our emotionally stunted cousins from across the pond insist on calling home.
Allow me to backtrack for a second. “Guest column?” I hear you cry en masse “Didn’t we already have to put up with one of these from some cynically bitter and sarcastic Canadian?” Well, yes, you did. And now you are to be treated to a second one written, appropriately enough, by some cynically bitter and sarcastic Brit. Eventually, perhaps, we’ll gather a collection of narcissistic, bitter young men from every country in the world to infect these pages with their barely concealed self-loathing and anger. A United Nations, if you will, of sneering sarcasm and poisonous prose.
My name is Ben, I am twenty six years old and I teach with Sara in Nablus, Palestine. But that sounds so mundane, so for the purposes of the next few hundred words or so let’s pretend that my name is, in fact, “Writhnar, destroyer of worlds”, that only three people know my real age and two of them were killed in mysterious circumstances involving a herd of bison and a Satanic cult, and that Sara and I met when I was busy saving hundreds of orphans from a burning building while she stripped to her underwear in an effort to seduce me, ignoring the plight of the burnt and smoke-coughing children I was in the process of rescuing.
Skip to today, just a few hours ago. There I sit, perusing that modern oracle of social activity, the almighty facebook, when it becomes apparent through Sara’s own shameless self promotion of her blog that Adem has been allowed to write and publish a guest column. Fury fills my normally placid heart and I begin to demand answers. Why has Adem got a guest blog? Why is Adem special? Is it because he’s Canadian? What makes Canadians special? Is it the maple syrup and moose sex? I bet it’s the maple syrup and moose sex, isn’t it Sara? If I eat sauce from a leaf and indulge in bestiality do I get special treatment? I think I spotted a lemon tree and a stray cat outside, will that do?
At this point Sara agrees to let me become the second guest column writer on her beloved blog. Ostensibly on the promise that I’ll stop referring to moose sex but secretly because she respects me as a writer, values my opinion and can’t stop thinking about that magical day she set fire to an orphanage in order to make my acquaintance.
So here I am, searching for a topic. I have already dismissed the idea of a long and detailed post on Manchester United’s amazing comeback against West Ham yesterday in an enthralling Premier League clash that saw Wayne Rooney rediscover the form that makes him one of the most lethal strikers in the world. Partly because I begin to bore even myself when I discuss football at such length but mostly because I’m assuming Sara’s readership is mostly made up of North Americans upon whom such a post would be wasted as they struggled to identify the word “football” as referring to a game played largely with one’s feet. And without such a mess of padding and helmets that one might as well stick a big group of athletes in padded cells, throw in an oddly shaped ball,
televise it (with an advertising break any time someone inhales, exhales or blinks) and call it “sport”.
So in order to play to the audience Sara had so delightfully offered me I thought I would need to look closer to home. A mutual interest or shared fascination between me and you, the reader. Suddenly the spotlight turned from the outside world to the apartment in the West Bank in which I currently reside. It focused a little, its narrow beam illuminating one individual in particular. Sara would be blinded by such an intense and brilliant light if she wasn’t, in this metaphor, bound to a chair, gagged, blindfolded and utterly terrified by the unwieldy chaos I may be about to bring to her blog.
My first thought was of developing a Freudian analysis of Sara’s facebook page, from the distinctly phallic connotations of the way she’s “grabbing wood” in her profile picture onwards, but it seems a cheap jibe and although I know Sara loves the way we ridicule each other on a daily basis, I think she’d just be offended if my insults got that lazy. Next I wondered if we should, collectively,perhaps, psychoanalyse Sara’s ridiculous compulsion to swear. I mean, I’m no silver fucking tongued angel of innocence myself but this girl takes the biscuit. Or cookie, for my American friends. Casual swearing is one thing, I might even argue that the sparse and well deployed use of a cuss word can add infinitely more emphasis to one’s speech than its omission, but addressing a class full of Palestinian schoolchildren with the phrase “Whaddup, mother-bitches, are we gonna fuck shit up today or whaaaaat?” goes a little far for my liking. Regardless, I decided that affliction was one for her counsellor, and the authorities, to deal with and possibly not appropriate content for an online publication that might later be used against her in a potential lawsuit by some disturbed child’s understandably shaken parents.
So instead I find myself perusing her creations on this typically twenty first century indulgence, aweblog, in order to find inspiration. I’m immediately struck by the way her mastery of the language weaves its way through carefully constructed passages and intelligently thought out arguments. I’m then struck by how little she has chosen to write about her time here and the topic of my blog is chosen.
I don’t know if it’s born of laziness or perhaps a horribly frustrating case of writer’s block that has led to such a lack of updates. If I’m honest, dear reader, I must confess that I believe it’s a symptom of nothing more than her inherent contempt and disrespect for you, her readership, on a very personal and individual level. Clearly you are blessed to be reading the words of a columnist who actually cares for each and every one of you, like a litter of lost puppies found, scared, alone and neglected in a dark corner of cyberspace. Don’t worry, everything’s ok now, Ben is here to care for you my loveable, if shambolic (and possibly diseased) pack of mutts.
So Sara’s time in Palestine will now be told as it should be, through the eyes of someone who lived it with her, who rode the rollercoaster alongside her, comforting each other at the lowest lows and hiding the crack pipe from each other when everything got a little too high. Here’s the story the world should know, the one that will be told for generations, though possibly only as a cautionary tale of warning against the dangers of “Perfect”, the cheapest brand of vodka in Palestine. Here is Sara’s story:
Sara came to Palestine on a chariot of heartbreak and betrayal that would leave even Judas Iscariot claiming she’d been harshly done by and his mate Jesus asserting that she should forget all this “other cheek” crap and wreak some decidedly violent revenge. Her emotional plight was one that would have broken a different person, far away from home and confused by the strange accent of a portly British man who she had been forced to share an apartment with.
But where some would have cracked, Sara strode on. An inner strength, obtuse stubbornness and insistence on playing a particular Helen Reddy song on repeat to the point where even a note of that tune is enough to make an entire apartment in Nablus threaten to kill the person playing it, refused to let her quit. A teacher she had planned to be, and an amazing one she would become. Her teaching skills were not limited to the classroom, though. She became the Arabic reference to all the plodding ignorant souls who trod heavily into her life, unable to even order a cup of tea in thecorrect language. She even managed to educate me, a self confessed theatre snob, on the wonders of musical theatre. Never before had I realised the acronym “OBC” referred to anything other than countries such as the USA and Palestine, I simply thought she was talking about “Old British Colonies”.
She became a student, too. Improving her own Arabic both at a grammatical level and, more importantly, by dedicating an entire page of her notebook to some of the most obscene and offensive insults the language has to offer. I had never thought of it before, but I’m proud to know somebody who is familiar with the Arabic for “I’m going to rip your leg off and shove it up your ass”. In fact, I think it’s an association my life was lacking until this point. She also took up guitar lessons, forcing herself to attend at the end of long days when the most effort I could make was to open another bottle of illicitly procured wine in this dry city.
There have been losses along the way. We still mourn our beloved pet rabbits, Backflip andVelveteen, who died in mysterious circumstances. I’m not suggesting foul play at all, but let’s just say that in the absence of a reliable autopsy we can only assume some cold hearted Coloradan murdered them in their sleep.
She has travelled, danced, joked and imbibed her way around the West Bank and helped to create a sanctuary of a kitchen area where no subject is too taboo and no accidental innuendo is allowed to go unnoticed. She has acquired a coffee machine where some thought the task impossible and she has retained a sense of fearless adventure that will doubtless one day see her killed by a sting ray while filming for a new television show in Australian waters.
So, for fear of allowing this to turn into some hippy love fest that destroys my own deliberately crafted facade of detached cool, I shall simply sum up by saying that Sara has proved herself to be a good housemate and a wonderful friend. Vomit, clear throat, brush teeth, get back to the insults.
What will come in the next month is an even more exciting thought than the memories of the previous two. Trips have been planned, ideas discussed and, as always, if we can rely on nothingelse we can rely on the fact that Sara will drag the rest of our ragged bunch into some adventure or other. She’ll probably get us lost, possibly get us killed and undoubtedly get us drunk but we’ll all come out of it (potentially) with a story to tell. And if we do manage to survive through some odd combination of good fortune and the pity other people may take on us, I’d like to come back to report on such happenings here on Sara’s blog, if she’ll allow me another go.