Not So Random Anymore

My new book, The Randomist, is a collection of memories, tales and reflections based on my own personal experiences as a Bahraini young man and a writer, combining cultural and social commentary with personal anecdotes. These include columns, essays and blog posts.

It was supposed to be launched around springtime, but due to the current instability in my country, and around the region, it’s put on hold for now. I am even considering adding a few more bits about the recent events that my country has witnessed since February 14.

What’s fascinating is how different these writings sound now, some of them even relevant, directly or indirectly, to this current unrest, while others now paint an image of a country that was and never will be. I’m looking at it now with completely different eyes.

I had received my mockup sample a few weeks ago. It looked pretty good. Hard cover, dust jacket with 240 pages. The cover features an illustration by my good friend artist Mariam Haji and is designed by myself.

But there were also a few glitches that need to be ironed out, the biggest of which is the size of the font, which is way too small for a hardcover book. So that’s a technical issue that needs to be corrected. Apart from that, I’m happy with the look and feel of the book. And with it’s content as well. Again, some editing here and there gotta be done before the final copy is printed.

I still hope that the book will come out before the end of the year, probably even later in summer. But I wonder what it will mean to me, to my Bahraini readers, and how will others perceive it now.

It doesn’t seem that random anymore.

A House Is A Box

We forget that houses have memories too. And once these houses are abandoned, their memories begin to fade.

My parents lived most of their young life in the old part of Manama. But like many of their generation, they opted to move into the city, to find a better home in the new suburban areas of Bahrain.

As years passed, most of Manama’s original inhabitants departed, leaving their homes behind, the homes they grew up in, the homes their parents had lived in, leaving them to their fate. Most of those old homes are demolished to make way for apartment buildings.

My aunt remained in her dilapidated home and every time we’d visit her, she’d complain about the new neighbors whose names are either too foreign or too long for her to remember.

From every angle and corner, a new apartment building leers over her ageing house, bullying it, waiting for it to finally fall and crumble; to be erased along with all of my aunt’s and my family’s memories.

Even to this day when I visit, I still get excited by the prospect of seeing my aunt and her home. As a kid it was almost like an adventure every time we visited, on the usual occasions, because it was different, it seemed like a completely different world compared to where I lived, a house in the suburbs of Isa Town.

When we were little, my aunt would always sneak to the “other room” – which we wouldn’t dare venture into – to fetch us some treats. The house always smelled of aromatic scents and spices.