Writing

José Saramago, the Nobel-laureate Portuguese novelist, poet, playwright and journalist recalled [of his grandfather who suffered a stroke and was taken to Lisbon for treatment], "He went into the yard of his house, where there were a few trees, fig trees, olive trees. And he went one by one, embracing the trees and crying, saying good-bye to them because he knew he would not return. To see this, to live this, if that doesn't mark you for the rest of your life," Saramago said, "you have no feeling."

Preparing for goodbyes

"Ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation"

- Kahlil Gibran

Globalization tells me the world is much smaller and more connected but that chasm of distance and longing sometimes cannot be so easily remedied by a plane ride for a weekend together or a telephone call. Kahlil Gibran was right then and still right today.

Who's going to help me eat all that food at our favourite Asian restaurant in town?

Photo Essay on Sudan - Dominic Nahr

Dominic Nahr, a photojournalist, had a recent photo essay capturing what's going on in the Nuba Mountains. It hit me how much I have grown to love and miss Southern Kordofan when I read this, "The reason I was so happy is because the Nubans are as inviting as their mountains that spring from the ground giving refuge and protection. The feeling of a struggle shared by Nuban civilians and rebels alike is innocent and pure. With almost no outside support they have learned to rely on themselves."

Read more: http://lightbox.time.com/2012/04/23/tracing-the-consequences-of-war-in-divided-sudan/#ixzz1tKtFaGjZ

Sharing one of my favourtite pictures taken in April 2011 when I was based in Kadugli. Villagers heading to the polling stations. And this one below: taken by JH. One of those weekends, we went hiking up.

Postcard Alexandria

Be like a postcard. Stay in the memory. Mornings in Alexandria, Egypt. 

Throwback: Nuba Mountains

Throwback: This is taken on my first trip to Buram in November 2010, in an isolated village in Al Dar in South Kordofan. The village folks came to meet us and the women were simply beautiful in their brightly coloured tobes. I remembered how blue the sky was. As usual, the air was hot and stifling. Two little boys sat beside me. One had an open wound on his ankle and his sister did her best to flick the flies hovering around it. Memory is certainly a strange thing.

Next Stop

What: Always moving. Where am I off next? (Insert drum rolls): CAIRO. Why: Study Arabic.