Al Rawiya

Memoirs of a Naughty Arab Woman

Note from the team: In a society where sex and pleasure are taboo, many things are left unsaid. In this column, Sin Dee describes what many in this society have experienced: hushed moments, fast heartbeats, and rising adrenaline. Unlike any other content we have put out, this column dares to speak the unspoken. 


If I was going to live until 90, what happened on that day guaranteed a shortened lifespan by five years, at least.


Yet, it was worth it. I loved it. I loved the rush. Adrenaline pumping through my veins. My heartbeat felt like I sprinted a marathon. Aaaaa, the pleasure! 


Mr. X and I were alone at home. Finally, some time alone, in a city where holding guns is less of a sin than sex between lovers. Finally, some time alone, at home – my home, where any kind of intimacy without a wedding ring on my finger is the ultimate sin. It is as sinful as the sins of all American presidents combined. Jesus himself was excused for his inability of holding my sins, for they are too many.


Finally, we were alone in a bed, my bed. Not in the back of the car, nor on the roof of my building, nor behind the trees in the garden, nor the staircase or the elevator, nor the amphitheater. We had the luxury of sleeping on clean sheets and cuddling under a warm blanket. 


Finally, we were alone naked. I wasn’t wearing a skirt for its ease of access. I didn’t need to create a hole in my tights. I didn’t droop to reach his skin. We were fully undressed, fully accessible.


Finally, we could be as loud as we wanted. He didn’t have to cover my mouth to mute my moans. We could redeem all of our unpronounced gratifications. 


Finally, we did enjoy each other… to the bones. As all my senses were magnified, as well as some body parts, I heard a key roughly penetrating the keyhole of the main door of my house. 


Mother is home, instead of being at work, where she is supposed to be, she is home!

I will pause the story here and review some facts:

– I am naked.

– I have a naked man in my bed.

– My mother is at the door. 

– Jesus can’t hold my sins. 

– I am too young to die. 

– My mother is too young to have a heart attack. 

– My guardian angel has committed suicide. 


Now the rest of my story happened in less than ten minutes, yet back then, it felt like an eternity.

Fast, Mr. X to the wardrobe. My heart is beating a thousand beats a second, I put whatever I find on the upper bed on me and go to welcome my mother. 

Mmm what is she doing at home right now? She still has two hours of work! Is she here to eat? No, she would have eaten outside? Maybe she needs to change her shoes! Or maybe change her whole outfit? 


“Why are you breathing like that?” She asks.

“I thought you were my father, and I was cleaning my room wearing very little clothes. You surprised me!” 

Good job, great answer. Oh my goodness, she will probably go pick something from my wardrobe. Oh my goodness, I hope she won’t pick Mr. X.


I imagined Mr. X and I sleeping on a soft surface covered with a soft, clean white sheet, and my parents throwing dirt on us with a shovel… mmm, not ready for that yet. Fast go remove Mr. X from the wardrobe, I thought to myself. I ran to my room, took him out of the closet, pushed him to the corner and threw a bunch of clothes and blankets on top of him.


 “Don’t breathe or you will die,” I tell him fiercely.

 The moment that he became well covered, she entered my room. 

“Do you have anything that suits these pants?” mother asks. 

She opens the closet, skims through my shirts, picks one, and goes looking for matching shoes in her room. 

Oh my goodness, she won’t find the desired color in her collection. She will come back to check my shoes!! Oh, the shoes are in the corner where Mr. X is imitating death. Fast, fast, fast, I kick him, take the blanket off, push him to the door leading to a tiny storage room behind the bed (I know, horrible room design). 




She comes back looking for the shoes in the corner, finds what she wants, and goes back to her room. 

Now, I need to keep her far from the kitchen because the kitchen is linked to the storage room behind my bed.


 I called my friend. “Come over, NOW, it is an emergency”

“What’s going on?” 

“COME NOW,” I whisper-scream before hanging up.

 I take a deep breath, the deepest of all deep breaths, and pray for a miracle. 


Suddenly, the doorbell rings. 

My neighbor, my lovely neighbor, my friend in need, my friend indeed is at the door. I tell her right away that Mr. X is hiding there, and we go stand in the kitchen pretending that we are doing something useful. 

“I am heading back to work. I’m already late. Are you going to be home when your sister is back?” mother shouts as she walks out the door.

“Yes, YES I will be here.” 



WE are the champions my friend and we’ll keep on fighting till the end, 

We are the champions 

We are the champions 

Nooooo… time for loooooooSERS 




AAAAA, I wanted to scream.

All I wanted to do was to scream in satisfaction. Oh my god the rush! I loved the rush. Adrenaline pumping through my veins. My heartbeat is sprinting a marathon.


AAAAA, aaaaa, the ultimate pleasure!



Rijan Amro

RIJAN AMROAn identity at the crossroads of Palestine and Canada – Behind ‘Pieces of Palestine’ “Where are you from?” I am Palestinian. But I’m also

Dave Merheje

DAVE MERHEJELaughter as Antidote Comedy has always been in the background of my life ever since I was a little boy. My family were jokers,