1977. Lebanon. Hana Assafiri looks out of an aeroplane window. Twenty hours and eight thousand miles away is her new home- the place where she was born.
2016. Melbourne. Hana Assafiri’s attention is being pulled every which way. We are sitting in her cafe The Moroccan Deli-cacy and our conversation is punctuated by multiple interactions that Assafiri has with her staff, ‘Get those plates in please, it’s not pigeons food’, and ‘Can you fix that spice display please – doesn’t look right’.
It’s been a couple of weeks and not a blog post in sight. I’ve been indulging in the fine art of procrastination, plus I felt I had nothing to write about.
I’m studying an Associate Degree in Writing and Editing at RMIT, there had been a mountain of assessments and by the end of the semester, I was exhausted. I hibernated for a few days, didn’t pick up a pen and went nowhere near the computer. I was done, my slate had been wiped clean and instead of writing-I just wanted to read something other than my own work.
We all come from somewhere else. You might have to go a few generations back, but we are all immigrants. Continue reading “The journey to now”
Friends either come to us or they don’t. There’s no measure or formula about how some friendships survive and others fade away.
As a child, you believe that everyone is your friend—until they’re not. Primary school playgrounds are full of heartbreak, not due to severed romances, but because a bestie won’t play with, or talk to you. You share lunches, whisper secrets and have sleepovers. You stay up talking all night, trying on your mother’s makeup and giggling about boys in your class. Continue reading “Mates”
Mother’s Day is bittersweet. As I’ve been without my own mother for more than half my life, I have no one to nurture and spoil. I’m a Mother’s Day orphan. I have 2 children- who don’t believe in the concept of a special day for celebrating their mama. They tell me they appreciate me 364 days per year and see no reason to go any effort on the 365th.
It’s at this time of the year, that I usually go through the family treasure chests and papers. Photos can tell a story, as do old postcards and letters and diaries.
So you’re now a woman of a certain age. This translates as someone over 40 whose boobs are sagging. Your chin may be sprouting hairs and fine line dots dot your face like a road map. You’re dried up, spat out and invisible. If anyone does see you, it’s assumed you have no interest in sex.
What’s in a name?
I was going to call this blog Mother of Dragons. But I figured that HBO might have copyright of that particular term and I don’t want a lawsuit from HBO.
