Free samples

In this summer of no peace and abominable news, there’s one from Italy that has alienated me from the human race.
In short: in a video (unfortunately authentic), two women in white scrubs and later identified as a doctor – a GP- and a nurse, are seen showing boxes of a drug from an Israeli company, TEVA, crossing out the brand name, and then throwing the packages in the trash.
When the Local Health Authority forced the two women to publicly apologize, they stated: “We didn’t throw away real drugs; they were free samples, wipes, and a sodium and potassium supplement. After symbolically scribbling them down, we put them back.”

When I moved to Sanaa, during my first year, I spent my evenings at my boss’s pharmacy. It was a way to understand what was around me, learn Arabic and have a wider view on Yemen.
Attached to the pharmacy was what they called “the clinic,” nothing more than a battered room where first aid was provided, injections were administered, and a bit of everything was treated: malaria, dysentery, high fevers, bruises, cuts, swollen joints. Wounds were cleaned. Sometimes, for free. Often for free.

On the main counter of the pharmacy was a string with a pair of scissors attached. They were used to cut medicine blister packs because, basically, people could afford ONE aspirin, ONE Panadol, ONE ibuprofen, ONE suppository.

In some countries, there are no free samples; there are no wipes, sodium, and potassium supplements that can make a huge difference in a person’s life.
If we want to protest, we should always consider the greater good and how our protest fits the wider picture. I am afraid that throwing away – or pretending to – free samples lacks any sense and definitely will not help the Palestinian people. It might actually offend them. But also the Yemeni and all those people who are dealing with bombs, wars, lack of outlooks, people who sit in refugee camps with no clean water and no tomorrow.
All those whose lives have only received constant free samples of misery.

India in grain

This photo belongs to Mumbai, to a Sunday afternoon, to Mona who was going out with someone new after having escaped the constant fury of a drunkard husband who used to beat everything out of her.
Pulp Mona.

This photo belongs to Mona’s mother, Doulab, who cleaned houses while looking for the real ‘suitable boy’, rebuilding Mona’s confidence and trust in humanity, who introduced us to Mona and her fiancé just there, in front of the Arabian Sea.

This photo belongs to the same period and a note I recently found:
‘Saw the tea boy who brings tea to my office.
I realised I am seeing him growing and no matter how I treat him or try to protect him, he lost his youth running from office to office.
Sometimes I get stuck with my eyes on his shirt: I see it’s pressed, or handled with care.
I ask myself if his mum does it for him, to look tidy.
My heart aches.’

This photo belongs to the mothers who jump into the impossible and do the triple somersault to hold the sky.
And their heart.
And the sea.
The whole lot.

This photo belongs to those who still care.
Just there, in front of all the seas, all hearts.


Intangibilities

Plane, train and concert tickets.
Letters, messages, postcards, images, dried roses, holy cards, newspaper clippings, poems, sketches.
Snapshots, business cards, satin threads, amulets, notes.

Sometimes they stay, they hide, reappear. Resurface.

And pages of exercises in Hindi from the summer in which the more life was taking away, the more I filled it with spaces and intangibilities because these could not be stolen, removed, appropriated.

Afterward, they even stole the book I was studying on, to remind us, as if life hadn’t already taught us enough, that nothing belongs to us.
Nothing is ours except our conscience.

These pages survived, I don’t know how.
My sounds in Hindi, hung like clothes on a line in the sun.
Tibetan prayers in the wind.

At the entrance to the house, on the wall, I had written the lines of a poem with henna.
I’m sure it’s still there – if you scratch – under new paint.

They just can’t take everything.