ihath

I was going to write about something completely different, but the young and restless are asking for comic relief, so here goes.

“O' ye people! Women are deficient in faith, deficient in shares and deficient in intelligence. With regards to deficiency in their faith, it is their abstention from prayers and fasting during their menstrual period. With regards to deficiency in their intelligence it is because the evidence of two women is equal to that of one man. As for the deficiency of their shares that is because of their share in inheritance being half of men. So beware of the evils of women. Be on your guard even from those of them who might seem good. Do not obey them, even when they ask you to do good things so that they may not attract you to evils later.”

That is the English translation of sermon number 80 from Nahj Al-Blagha (path of eloquence). The famous collection of sermons by Imam Ali. Now, Imam Ali was married to Fatima, the prophet’s daughter. Considered to be the finest of the finest of women. If this is what Imam Ali has to say about women being married to the finest of the finest. Imagine what he would have to say if he was married to average nagging Iraqi wife. Ayayayeeeeee. The thought brings chills down my spine.

Whenever my husband is not talking to me, usually because I either did or said something stupid. I pick up my copy of Path of Eloquence and flip to sermon number 80. I proceed to read the Arabic text projecting my voice all around the room, making dramatic gestures with my hands and annunciating the words “deficient in faith”, “deficient in intelligent” deliberately. This theatrical display usually gets at least a smile from my dear Za’atrah. We laugh our heads off, kiss and make up.

I should thank Ameer al Mu’imeneen (prince of the believers – common nick name for Imam Ali) for saving me in a few tight spots when saying a simple “Sorry I didn’t mean that” seemed inadequate.

Yes, I know. I am going to hell for such brazen actions. But think about it. Where would you rather go? Hell or heaven? Think about all the people going to heaven, Ayatoallah Khomeny, Sistani, The Pope, His Holiness the Dalai Lama and mother Teresa. They will be all up there praying, chanting and meditating. Now think for one second about all the people going to hell. Elvis Presley, Merlyn Monroe, Madonna and all the other good sinners. Down there is hell we will be having a good disco party, dancing, good music, woohoo. Who would you rather spend eternity with? I think I would rather go to hell, thank you.

“Next year in Jerusalem” said our host.

I was at my friends house attending a Passover dinner in Jerusalem. Passover is a Jewish holiday that celebrates when Jewish people passed from Egypt to Palestine through the red sea, therefore escaping slavery and hardship. It is usually celebrated by an elaborate dinner at which everybody reads the Ha’agadah, the story of the Passover. There is good food, wine, songs in addition to a great story. The very last statement said, symbolizes the yearning of all the Jewish people to return to Jerusalem. Even though we were living in Jerusalem, people still say it in order to reaffirm their commitment to living in Jerusalem.

“Next year in Jerusalem” repeated everybody after the host as they were closing their Ha’agadah book. I closed my story book, bite my lip and said in my heart “Next year in Vancouver”.

No words can describe my yearning to be in Vancouver, offset only by my desire to get out of Jerusalem at any price.

I lived in many cities in the world and each had its pluses and minus. Jerusalem is city I hated the most. In fact, I should say that I hated both Jerusalems. Jerusalem is divided into two parts, western Jerusalem (mostly Israeli) and eastern Jerusalem (mostly Palestinian and includes the old city). And I hated both equally. In fact, I should say that I hated all the Jerusalems, because the city was further devided into religious and non religious neighborhoods. Touristy and regular places. It is really many cities and each has its own distinct personality. And I hated all the psychotic, split personalities of that city. I hated the sign in Mea’a Sha’areem street that tells women not walk down the road when they are menstruating because it would be disrespectful to the ultra orthodox Jewish traditions. I hated the super aggressive Palestinian merchants in the old city that would harass tourists, essentially intimidating them to enter the store and buy something. I hated the stupid tricks the priests would play on tourists in the holy sepulcher church by making the statue of the virgin Marry cry so that the tourist would be convinced that they were witnessing a miracle and donate more money. I hated the way Christian tourists would descend on mountain of olives in bus loads and crawl around kissing the ground and crying hysterically instead of enjoying the amazing view. And what’s up with calling little hills mountains anyway? I hated the cat calls and sexual harassment that any woman would be subjected to, regardless of which Jerusalem you were in and regardless of how modestly you were dressed (couldn’t the Israelis learned something positive from the Palestinians instead?). I hated it when somebody would call me “hamoda” (sweetie in Hebrew) and I hated it even more when somebody would call me “bobah or bobaley” (doll in Hebrew) - بوبه في عينك يا تيس - . I hated driving behind a tank for an hour, these things are slow, they go about 20km/h, plus they are one and a half times the width of a car so they take two lanes which means you can’t pass them. There should be a law forbidding tanks on the road during rush hour. I hated taking the bus because people would push me around and step on my feet.

I could go on for another three pages but I think I beat this horse to death.

Ok, so not everything in Jerusalem is negative, there a few things I liked. I liked walking at 5 am to the mountain of olives and watch the sunrise when it was all quiet with not another soul around. On one side you could see the beginning of the Negev dessert and on the other side a view of the whole old city with the Dome of the Rock smack in the middle. The contrast was striking. I liked walking around in Emek Rafa’eem in west Jerusalem with its cool coffee shops and funky jewelry shops. Mahanah Yehuda (looks like an old shouk only is not that old) in downtown Jerusalem is pretty cool as well, regardless of how many times it has been bombed.

Later I would realize that it wasn’t the city that I disliked so much as the grumpy, cynical and aggressive person I was becoming in it. But that is a story for another post.

I do have to credit Jerusalem though, for teaching me a few important lessons and one of them being the gift of art appreciation.

I used to think that all art was a useless waste of time. You can’t eat art. So why produce it or waste time with such impractical matters. Until one day in Jerusalem my coworker Boris came to work hardly able to contain his excitement. He told me that the night before he visited the Museum of Israel and there he saw a very famous painting by a very very famous painter, this painting was going to be displayed at the Israel museum for several weeks before it returns to its original gallery somewhere in Europe. Part of me was saying “Big deal, it is just a painting” but the excitement in Boris’s eyes convinced me to go to the Israel Museum that very evening. I bought my ticket. And sat infront of the very very famous painting determined to figure of what the big deal was.



The hand out stated that the painting by Kustav Klimt illustrates the
legend of Salome, who danced the dance of the seven veils for King Herod and then demanded the head of John the Baptist on a platter. You can observe her hand clutching the severed head of the poor fellow on the right bottom corner of the painting.

So, I stared and stared at the painting. I stared at that weird expression of satisfaction in her face. Has she no remorse? doesn’t she feel ashamed? And then the female figure in the painting spoke to me, she said “ihath! Take hold of yourself, take hold of your life”. That was no cheap trick, no hidden pipes delivering fake tears from behind a dead statue, that was no virgin either, that was the real stuff. I got up and went home with a heavy heart. I knew exactly what I needed to do. I thought it would never come to this.

Sometimes a woman has to do what a woman has to do.

I lived in many cities in the world and Vancouver is the only city I returned to after leaving.

I love Granville Island with all the musicians playing at different corners. I love Stanley, park, walking around the sea wall, the kids like riding the choo choo train. I love walking under the rain. I love going for a walk on Commercial Drive with the hippy stores and that amazing Italian coffee shop that has all those roman marble statues. I love sushi lunches and dining in fancy seafood restaurants. I love the International Film festival which I attend religiously every year and I love the international folk festival at Jericho beach. I love taking long walks on the beach right around sunset or the sunrise. I love going on all day hikes in the mountains. I love kayaking in the ocean. I love the fact that I see the mountains everyday on my way to work. I love the way nobody notices me when I walk around the city, the way nobody looks or stares. I love that feeling of being anonymous in a busy city , the feeling of being a nobody. I love the fact that I can still get lost here even though I lived here for many years. I love no security guards.

Not everything is perfect in Vancouver, there are a few things that irk me. Like that pathetic art gallery we have that rarely displays worth while art. But, no place can be perfect.


One year from seeing that very very famous painting I was back in Vancouver a good friend invites us to spend a Passover dinner with his family. We have lots of fun, good food, wine, songs. At the end of the ceremony, my friend says “Next year in Jerusalem” as he closes his Ha’agadah. I close my story book, bite my lip and in my heart I say “No way Jose, been there, done that, never again”.

Thus ended my quest for the holy grail. It ended by me realizing that I didn’t want to find it.

Mohammed sent me an email sharing a short story from his life which reminded me of this story. Thank you Mohammed and here it is.

“Welcome to Canada”, said the immigration officer to me at Montreal airport. “You are now a landed immigrant”, he continued as he stamped my passport. “That means that you have all the rights of a Canadian except voting and nominating yourself for public office, in three years you can apply for a Canadian citizenship and get the full rights of any Canadian”.

I wanted to scream, I wanted to kick something. I wanted to gab the immigration officer by the collar, shake him while blaring in his face: “are you insane?”.

I wasn’t mad at the immigration officer who was processing my papers at the airport upon my first arrival to Canada; Instead, I had just realized the inhumanity of the situation I had left behind.

This was my first hour in a new country that I knew nothing about. I came to a country that I had very little in common with. No shared language, not English nor French. No shared culture or religion. I didn’t know who the prime minister of Canada was, I didn’t know what the capital city was. All I knew about this new country was that Terry Fox was a Canadian who ran coast to coast in order to raise money for cancer after being afflicted with it himself. And I had this image in my head about Canada that included pristine lakes, mountains and nature. I had my Canada tourist guide which I haven’t started reading yet. I just arrived here with a brown official looking paper that says that I was accepted for landed immigrant status and on day one, I am told that I have the full rights, just like all the people born and raised here. “What do you mean? That can’t be”.

I came from a country where I grew up. I had plenty in common with that country, same language (Arabic), same religion (Islam), shared history and an almost identical culture. For 18 years I had lived in Kuwait and in all that time I had no rights. I was a second class human.

I wanted to cry in the immigration office.

Being the demure arab girl that I was back then, I didn’t do any of the things that I wanted to do. Instead, I sat demurely on the chair, staring mostly on the ground to avoid eye contact with the man sitting across the desk according to proper arab customs. When the immigration officer was finished, I smiled shyly, said thank you, collected my papers and left his office. I was also a freaked out by his physical appearance. The immigration officer, whose name I can’t remember, looked eerily similar to my late grandfather in the Czech republic. For some reason, I keep having chance encounters with elderly men that look eerily similar to my late grandfather at monumental turning points in my life. Very spooky.

When you grow up somewhere, you accept the conditions around you as normal, you don’t question them. Then you move somewhere else and see things from a very different perspective.
In Canada, when people hear that I grew up in Kuwait from age 1 till age 19, they find it strange that I don’t consider myself a Kuwaiti. I have to keep explaining that things in Kuwait don’t function the way they do in Canada. In Kuwait, you can never ever become a Kuwaiti doesn’t matter how long you live there, I knew families that have been living there for three generations and still it didn’t matter, they were whatever nationality they came as. This wasn’t just a functions of laws that make it impossible to gain official status, but a whole culture where the local population saw itself as members of exclusive club and others where not welcome to join. Everyday I lived there I was made aware that I didn’t belong and that this was not my country so that I wouldn’t make myself too comfortable.

“Ajanib” which means foreigners in Arabic is what people like me were called. The ajanabi could not speak Arabic with a Kuwaiti accent because he would be looked down upon by Kuwaitis as an imposter. Don’t even try to pretend to be a Kuwaiti.

In the middle east we frequently like to complain about western colonization but we rarely mention the ways in which we colonize ourselves.

The sad fact is that nobody was forcing us to live in Kuwait, we lived there out of our own free will. Despite of the many negatives, we were 100 times better off living in Kuwait than living in our native Iraq. At least in Kuwait if you mind your own business and not interfere with politics you are left alone. Unlike Iraq, Kuwait was a low stress country where most people worried about family, work and personal matters. In Kuwait I was discriminated against because of my father’s nationality but in Iraq I would have been discriminated against because I was alive and breathing. In truth, Kuwait was a safe heaven for many Iraqis, Palestinians and other nationalities, if compared to realities in other countries in the middle east at the time.

So I walked around Montréal knee deep in snow and felt frozen cold no matter how warmly I dressed. I opened my Canada tourist guide and looked for the warmest part in the country and discovered that there is a city where the weather is fairly mild all year long called Vancouver. I came to Montréal because I wanted to study in McGill which is supposed to be the best university in Canada but given that I was convinced that I would die in this weather. I thought I better put survival ahead of education. So I moved to Vancouver and studied in UBC instead which was a good decision indeed.

Turns out that Terry Fox grew up near Vancouver.

In the book One Thousand and One Nights. Scheherazade has to tells stories in order to survive. She tells such interesting and compelling stories that Schehrayar can’t help but let her live one more night and then another and then another. After a thousand and one nights, Schehrayar gets attached and forgets his murderous desire. By salvaging her own life with her stories, Scheherazade in turn liberates Schehrayar’s heart from its darkness.

 This blog started with me telling stories from my life (creative non-fiction). Over time I started to run out of stories that I could tell and began to persue my love for telling a good story via other means. Fiction, fairy tales, illustrations, paintings, dancing and even programming. To me it is all about telling a good story.





My name is Elen Ghulam, but readers of this blog frequently call me ihath. I am an Iraqi living in Canada. In the past I have lived in several countries, Czech republic, Kuwait, Scotland and Jerualem. But now that I found Vancouver, I have no intentions of ever moving again. I am hoping that my days as a wondering gypsy are over. I live in a pink house with three children. two girls and a boy.


I attempt to tell it like it is. I tell you what I saw and how it felt. I avoid giving opinions. Mostly because I find that opinions are useless. I  love it when readers of this blog share their one own stories with me.

In addition to English, I speak Arabic, Czech and Hebrew. I work as a computer programmer and have earned a B.Sc. in computer science in 1991 from University of British Columbia. I dance flamenco, enjoy painting with acrylics and have an interest in the field of computational linguistics.

I am also the author of the book titled "Don't Shoot! ... I have another story to tell you". Which you can purchase here.






A while back somebody told me that he felt the blogging was a waste of time that it had no purpose. I disagree. If we tell interesting and compelling stories, shooting us will be more difficult.

Sometimes the keyboard is mightier than a cruise missile and other times it is not.

King Schehrayar started as a loving young husband, until one day he came home to his palace to find his wife with another man. The hurt was deep. In a rage, he kills his wife and declares a war on women. He marries frequently, only to murder the bride the morning following the wedding night; therefore ensuring that no woman would ever hurt him again. His heart is safely sealed behind a security barrier that no feminine intrusion could breach. The mother of all sex battles rages until he encounters the wise and enchanting Scheherazade. On the wedding night she tells him a story; but right at the crucial point of the story she starts sighing and tells him that she is tired and goes to sleep. The next morning, Schehrayar decides to let her live one more day so that he could hear the end of the story. Scheherazade weaves a tapestry of stories inside stories but each night stops at a suspenseful point.

There were quiet whispers and phone calls late into the night. Hysterical laughter and shifty looks. You could feel the excitement in the air, there was electrical tension, a buzz. A sense of anticipation. What will happen next? Surely the worst is over. It can’t possibly get any worse. Almost anybody would better than the other guy. Nobody, nobody could be worse that the last guy. Almost any change is a good change when you hit rock bottom. This last few years were definitely the lowest of the low. Yes he is a Ba’athist, but he is bound to be an improvement over the other guy.

That is what they said, that is what many many theys said.

The year was 1979, I was only a kid. Nine, maybe ten. I didn’t understand much of the hustle and bustle in our house hold. I only knew that something big had happened. And that somebody called Saddam has just become our president. They said that he could not be any worse that the previous guy.

All the theys were wrong. Very very wrong. Turns out the previous guy, Ahmed Hassan al Bakar the Iraqi president before Saddam, was only teasing us. Saddam was the serious stuff. No more goofing around.


Ten years later, I was no longer a kid but a young woman. There were many phone calls with congratulation. Sighs of relief. People hugged each other on the streets when the news was announced. Thank god, thank god. The war was over. Eight years of hell that killed one million Iraqis and Iranians. It was all useless. What a waste. But at least it was over. Both countries will start rebuilding and things will get better. It can’t possibly get any worse, can it? ….. Naaah it can’t. Perhaps Saddam would have eaten a bit of humble pie after his failed attempt to subdue the Persian enemy. Surely he won’t be very quick to embark on yet another crazy war after this last experience.

We were wrong. Very very wrong. Turns out that the Iraqi/Irani war was only a small taste of things to come. The end of that war would set a chain of events that nobody could have foreseen, or maybe we were just blind. Maybe we wanted to believe. Maybe the writing was on the wall and we just didn’t want to see it. Maybe we were a bunch of fools. Sweet Jesus, have mercy on us.

And then, there was the American war on Iraq. At least this time there was no consensus. There were those that opposed it and others that said: “it hurts, but it is for the best”. Almost anything would be better that Saddam. Almost anything would be an improvement. It can’t possibly get any worse. It doesn’t matter what the Americans do to us, it can’t be any worse than what has been done already. They can bomb us and torture us, it would still be an improvement on the current situation. Anything to remove this maniac from power. One person said to me in all seriousness “ I wish that Israel would come and invade Iraq and do to us what they are doing to the Palestinians, even that, yes even that, would be an improvement of what we have lived through.”. I kid you not. Can’t get any worse. Can’t possibly get any worse anymore. This must be the rock bottom. God, have mercy on us.

So the ex Ba’athist, CIA agent prime minister is brought to replace the ex CIA agent Ba’athist president. But, I would like to be optimistic and still believe that maybe things will work out for the best. Can’t get any worse…..or can it?


O! Lord. Give me the power of self delusion for the reality is hard to take.

I think I finally understand why I like this song

Don't speak
I know just what you're saying
So please stop explaining
Don't tell me cause it hurts

Don't speak
I know what you're thinking
I don't need your reasons
Don't tell me cause it hurts

Our memories Well, they can be inviting
But some are altogether Mighty frightening
As we die, both you and I
With my head in my hands I sit and cry

Don't speak
I know just what you're saying
So please stop explaining
Don't tell me cause it hurts (no, no, no)
Don't speak I know what you're thinking
I don't need your reasons
Don't tell me cause it hurts

It's all ending
I gotta stop pretending
who we are... You and me
I can see us dying...are we

Don't speak
I know just what you're saying
So please stop explaining
Don't tell me cause it hurts (no, no, no)
Don't speak I know what you're thinking
I don't need your reasons
Don't tell me cause it hurts
Don't tell me cause it hurts!
I know what you're saying
So please stop explaining
Don't speak,don't speak, don't speak,
oh I know what you're thinking
And I don't need your reasons
I know you're good, I know you're good,
I know you're real good Oh, la la la la la la La la la la la la

Don't, Don't, uh-huh Hush, hush darlin'
Hush, hush darlin' Hush, hush don't tell me tell me cause it hurts
Hush, hush darlin' Hush, hush darlin'
Hush, hush don't tell me tell me cause it hurtse?

ihath going on a vacation
bc wilderness
seeking salvation

no access to internet
world news vacuum
savagery at its best

achey breaky heart
writer's blues
hatha sar film hindi

mr. h. demands a translation
north american curse
instant gratification

he wants to understand
matters of the heart
with his head

do not worry, do not fret
this story
not finished yet

few more bits to tell
the rest
is harder to put to the test

I am not cnn
I am not aljazeera
I am ihath
thirty something woman

you wanted a peek
my life
with the middle east

why should I love a land that want to kill me?
in my childhood innocence
no choice, not even a maybe

you my friend have an alternative
turn around
before it is too late

once you stare into this
heart of darkness
forever haunted
genuine madness

the middle east
a charming seductress
bound to betray

some matters
are not meant
to be experienced virtually

I will sit under a tree
stare into the void
and contemplate infinity

I will find me a rock
near a river
watch water towards me flock

in my absence
please be genteel
keep the comments PG13

“The silly goose went river rafting” tells me my dentist. I respond by saying “aha!”, What else am I going to say?, my mouth is wide open and I got various equipment stuck deep in my mouth. God bless him, my dentist, he always has an intriguing discussion with me right at the point when the only response I can give him is “Hmmm, bhem, ehm”. But this time was an out of the ordinary occasion. This was the first time that he sees me a bit late and all the equipment is not in order. He starts by apologizing to me, the dental assistant that usually works with him went river rafting and broke her arm in the process. She phoned him that morning to apologize for not being able to come to work. He explains to me that usually the dental assistant would have all equipment ready before my arrival but because of this last minute development the schedule fell into disarray and the schedule was delayed by about 10 minutes. I would like to tell him not to worry that I am not in a rush, but all I manage is a gentle nodding of my head which I hope conveys “I understand” message. He then proceeds to tell me how foolish his dental assistant is, how she always chooses to do silly things. This time she really went overboard. She went river rafting, half way through she fell off the raft and nearly drowned, luckily she was caught in some tree braches and was rescued. She got away with just a broken arm. My dentist hopes that the silly goose will learn her lesson and stop doing stupid things. When the dental work is done and I am finally able to close my mouth. I ask my dentist to guess what I am about to do in two days, as I am wiping my mouth. The dentist shakes his head, “I have no idea” he says. “I am going river rafting”, I reply. For the first time, I see my dentist get a sheepish look on his face. Usually, he is the embodiment of the self assured and serious man, there is a faint trace of a smile. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence he finally asks me “So are you still going to go? Or did what I tell you scare you off?”. I tell him that he has given me something to think about and that I will tell him what I decide at a later point. In truth, I was a bit scared. The thought of nearly drowning and breaking my arm is not very appealing. I start thinking that maybe my encounter with the dentist is some sort of an omen, a message from beyond to warn me about not going river rafting. Should I go anyway? Should I cancel the trip and stay home that weekend?

A ship is safest when it’s tied to the harbor, but that is not what ships are for. I want an adventure; but, is it possible to have a safe adventure? Can I have an adventure without the risk of getting hurt?

As I stood besides the Thomson river getting ready to get on the raft. I could see the dentist standing there in his lab coat whispering in my ear: “Silly goose, silly goose, silly goose”. I wanted to turn around and get back into my car and drive home. Instead I went into the raft and secured a place right in the front.

The only way to describe the experience would be to say – exhilarating. I had the time of my life. When the two day trip was over I was shouting -- let’s do it again.

Just look at this picture and the expression on their faces. It says it all. This is a picture from the website of the rafting company that organized the trip.


Next time I have a tooth ache I will go to the dentist but ignore his advice on life matters.




Chocolates are bad for your teeth so be sure to have plenty each week. Got to keep those realistic dentists employed.