#algeria
And when I was far from home,
in another land, with Travelers who rented about their homes, I remembered you.
I remembered how warm you were.
From one plate to another, my tongue could taste them all.my mother’s fingers kneading dough, separating couscous grains, the annoying heat when she decided to make Mhadjeb.
I could taste every sweet they once made:
Bradj, Baghrir, Kalb El Louz. even the Eid sweets we used to steal at night with cousins and siblings, all of us in matching Jebbas, lying on mattresses on the floor.
We cried from holding in our laughter, gossiping about family drama, who married who, who said what, and our own little dramas too. dancing to our songs:
Chaabi, Gharbi, Staifi, even rai.
How lovely were the times in the kitchen, baking and cooking,while peeking at both our mothers’ drama, and our fathers’ political debates.
I remembered strangers on the street,their humility, their kindness,proof that goodness still exists. And I still believe,
I still believe in the good.
I still believe in you.
So that my childhood will never fade,
I will listen to your songs,
wear your clothes,
drink your tea,
eat your food,
speak to your people,
to never forget
my love for you.
Aug 28, 2025
Aug 28, 2025 at 7:03 PM UTC
Heaven here
and happiness
Faces like coffee
Hearts of chocolate
I remember and hum
Sleeping on pillows
not walking through fire
You remember and sing
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 11:27 AM UTC
Our walls
white against white
decorated with jasmine flowers
that have witnessed everything.
They've seen the french
speaking the language of love
with weapons of destruction in their hands
carrying our nation's sons
six feet under their footsteps
stepping on honor's history forever.
"Ya worood al yasmeen"
with pearly white petals,
and bright green stems
I've watch you grow over our house
year after year
hanging high and low
gazing at the loss below.
I am now far, distant like a stranger
the homeland has put smiles on our faces
that glow in albums of badly taken pictures
that will haunt my path across oceans.
One day, the heart will ask for home
and I shall listen to it
as it yearns for the sweet scent of jasmines.
My grandmother's house once filled with love
now emptied
her biggest fears coming to life
pictures hanging on the wall
ghosts of love so short-lived
but remind me to tell her
that she is not alone
there are flowers like angels watching from above.
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC
Dirt clogged scrubgreen foothills
roll to meet obscured mountains,
veiled in translucent exhaust haze.
Terracotta tile roofs
top flaking white buildings
piled together. Escheresque
march down broken streets.
Traffic clogged arteries pulse
toward tangled city center
disgorging cars,
weary souls.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:47 AM UTC
Delicate ochre haze
against dark mountains
separates receding
lines of luxuriant trees. These
valley vistas,
these suburbs, look
like an 18th-century set
design: the landscape
stepping back
one row
after the other in
distant views. Funny
how hanging contamination
gently showcases
nature.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC
Watery morning
sunlight
filters gently through
browning oak
leaves nevertheless
another Algiers
rush
hour grips
convulses
disgorges
one
rattling car
after the
other.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:39 AM UTC
Algiers, six
floors up but
still
the rich
odor of reused
cooking oil, of limp French
fries makes its
way to this
tiled top floor
balcony, an absolute sky
scraper by local standards. The
low whine of traffic
reaches me –
syncopated, punctuated
by a workman’s
hammer, an impatient
horn, the wail of a car
alarm, a quick shout
of greeting, of
anger. I
can almost see that
far away
in the distance
velvet mountains still
bluely rim
the fog-yellowed
sea.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:37 AM UTC
It’s only six
thirty, but
night is already
heavy, thick,
black, dense.
We hurtle along
ink-dark twisted
roads, lined with
tall, promising,
never-lit
streetlights and feathery
bending pines. A young
man emerges suddenly,
out of spreading
darkness,
walking -
it’s always men
walking at night - he
wears somber
clothes, and walks
near the edge
of the broken, rising
pavement,
unaware. He is
illuminated
in a brief flash
by the angry head
lights of an
oncoming car,
then he disappears,
consumed by the
night. The only trace
he leaves is
the faint
incandescence from
his palm-cradled
phone.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
The villages of Algiers
Well, suburbs
Really, but villages
Is what is said
In French
And heaven
Knows, despite one
Hundred thirty years of
Colonization
Brutalization
Deprivation
The many Algerians
Still
Love French. Those
Villages team with men
At night.
At night, the women
Wait
Indoors
Behind doors, away.
Waiting.
But at night the
Men take the streets.
At night the men crowd
Streets, cut in
Front of traffic, clog
Cafes, stream
Toward the mosque away
From the mosque fill stores
But mostly
Mostly they
Squat
Sit, or just
Hold up walls.
They lean.
Stare. Talk. They watch cars
As they jostle and jolt
Watch other men
Walking, watch
The silence
The noise. Watch
Stars, the
Dark
Still buildings
The passing cat, the rhythm
Of the wind,
Watch the gibbous moon and
It’s cycle
The fullness, the waxing and waning
They watch
They witness
The villages
The suburbs
The streets
They watch
The dead.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
The North African morning light is thin and ****** and
Walking men are rinsed in the dim blush, they
Walk with heads down and
Cradle, eyes bent, contemplating, gently sipping
Steaming densely syruped espresso from miniature paper cups,
Bought from the nearest cafe. Their
Spreading hands are wrapped
Delicately around those doll-size paper
Cups (sometimes glass ones)
And still they walk, tasting tannic liquid
Courage, holding, with tender precision,
Candied black strength. I
Drink too, though because homemade, not
As strong a cup -
And now we both, the walking men and I
Tip heads back and face the newly purged
Light, emboldened by borrowed audacity.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:13 AM UTC
I travelled to the homeland
to reconcile with my past.
I flew over miles of identities
to find my own.
Aug 16, 2014
Aug 16, 2014 at 2:07 PM UTC
I will not let the blood of my ancestors
to be shed in vain
Where they have fought for our freedom
yet my generation are quiet
I will not let westernization
ruin my soul and tatter my traditions
I will not let the westernized beauty
blind me from my culture’s beauty
I will not let the blood of my ancestors
to be shed in vain
Where they have fought for the earth that is now free
the earth where my soul thrives on
I will not let the television
brainwash my perception of spirituality and religion
to make me question that who I am
is wrong
I will not let these white-washed books
to create gaps in my history
I will not let the blood of my ancestors
to be shed in vain
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
Against layers of western pop and soulful jazz,
I find myself yearning for the sound
of traditional music
These ears know well
the tune that reminds them of home.
My blood dances
to the thumping of the tabla,
the melodious clash of castanets
and plucking of strings on leathered guitars.
Traditional music is the voice
of my silenced ancestors;
and the treasure that is the legacy
they have left behind for us.
Each night I will remind myself
of the beauty of Algeria
and the sound that vibrates its fertile soil
and resonates in my heart.
Reaching out to hold the hands
of those who came before me;
we stand united by the melody
of our anthem.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 3:18 PM UTC