Movement.

"It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society." —Krishnamurti

This is the quiet before storm. Nightmares nestled neatly between heavenly highs of happiness set the tone for the fattening of the beast. An infestation of cockroaches closes in on the house, as birds perched patiently on rotting trees wait for the feast of a lifetime. Crippled, shackled to the ground, I laugh my way through the morning call to prayers. Sunlight seeping through the satin curtains burns my eyes. Tomorrow has come, let the gluttony begin.

As the day unfolds itself before my wakening mind, the sight of our concrete fence humbles my senses, eating away slowly at my aspirations. With fire in my hand, I set out to burn down the city, and I scream to my mom, that brick by brick, neon light by neon fight, the world will fall.

Today, let us seek inspiration from the struggles of indigenous peoples around the world, from Turtle Island to Tamil Eelam. While some might find anger from the eating of swine or drinking of wine, I find something much more divine in examining what's happening behind the line, and what's happening in Palestine. Every stone thrown has the name of mine, just like a man who they called Argentine (Che) who to this day we can use what he had to thrive and survive but instead he's sold on shirts for five dollars. There's blood on the collars and scholars forgot that they had daughters who were forced to shake their hips after men on ships came equipped with what's hip and what's nice and forced the fact that what lies between their thighs is worth more than what lies between their eyes. My brother dies in front of my eyes and I realize that that is the prize for freedom. Easy.

Geo-poli-tricks

Sri Lankan military maggots have been relentlessly ethnically cleansing Tamils for the last few months, under the watchful eye of the world, and compliments of the training regiments of the Israeli military. Despite numerous deaths, and the manifestation of hell, the struggle for Tamil Eelam, as an independent sovereign nation, roars more colorful than a million tigers parading their might on mountain tops.

In Iraq, people daily sketch out their names on their own tombstones in their makeshift lives. A trail of crumbs decorates the escape route taken by a government of goons, gone with the loot, and never looking back. It has been four years since my eyes met Baghdad. Her beauty beats away at the burning fire, that has been raging on for decades, and is suspected to continue into eras infiniti.

Hillary Clinton, the empire's mouth, was the latest high ranking official to spit on Baghdad. She visited Iraq last week, like an abusive mother visiting her daughter on hear death bed after a good beating. Except Hillary, wife of Bill, is no mother of Baghdad or mine. She is merely a murderer masquerading slowly to the sounds of the death of Iraq.

I played close attention to the visuals of Captain Clinton's visit, as the TV set remained muted to silence the sarsarlooghiya, Iraqi for symphony of utter disrespect. I noticed that Hillary landed on Baghdad's wounded head in a military plane, re-emphasizing the fact that Iraq is still a war zone, far from the diplomatic diatribe pretending Iraq is heading towards peace.

I also realized that, as she creepily crawled off her plane, that waiting to greet her was an American diplomat, followed by an American marine, sidelining the sovereignty of "liberated" Iraq and dismissing the myth that Iraq is a nation in control of its own affairs. Hoshiyar Zibari, Iraq's "foreign minister" was there, third in line, fat, bent over, ready to serve. Hillary wasn't visiting a foreign county, Hillary was coming home.

Scores of American military personnel surrounded her arrival, with no members of the Iraqi Armed Forces to be seen, untrustworthy of the job of securing Hillary, but trustworthy of securing millions of Iraqis. Seems odd to me.

But perhaps the most disturbing visual induced by Obama's proxy visit, who did visit Iraq in person last month, to entertain the scores of American troops raping and killing away in Iraq, was the connection that I was forced to make between her and her equally nauseating partner, Bill.

For eight years, Bill Clinton, adminestered the death of 1.5 million Iraqis, during his reign as emperor of the world. His administration's policy of genocidal sanctions stripped Iraqis of their dignity and lives for dozens upon dozens of dizzy diarrhetic days. It was Bill who set the tone, the UN who performed it, and all the leaders of the Arab world who clapped and danced on top of Iraqi graves, many sized to fit children under the age of five.

I cannot sleep without mentioning the recent UN conference on racism that took place in Geneve, home to one of the West's most racist immigration policies itself. The conference has been criticized by the world's leading neo-colonial powers: the US, the UK, Canada, and the EU, for the possibility of calling Israel a racist state. Not only is Israel a racist apartheid state, but Zionism, the driving ideology behind the colonial settler project, is a vile philosophy comparable only to the world's most fascist affairs. For the UN to try and negotiate an escape route for Israel via "International Concern" is another notch in the UN's disgraceful history, from Rwanda to Srebrenica to Basra to Gaza to Tamil Eelam, and the list goes on.

Where is Saron?

In a world overflowing with the stench of oppression, there is little respite from the relentless rain of exploitation and tyranny, especially in these parts of the globe. But in my world, the separation between me and Saron, cuts through me like the bayonette of the ugliest of soldiers.

Where is she now? Her hips swaying, crushing any obstacles in her way. I miss her kisses on my face, infusing life into my worn down exterior. I miss holding her hands, as we navigte our ways into each other's diaspora. I miss her curves, carefully cutting away at the cold, leaving trails of smoke in the way. I miss her eyes, oceans of hope, dignity, and ambition. But mostly, I miss her smell, infused with the magic of kweens and peppered with the spice of soaring heights.

In a world without Saron, liberation would dangle in front of my eyes, unattainable and unwanted by me.

Just a little bit.

Today's discussion is being undressed to the sounds of Flamenco infused Sufi music, an uncomfortable musical mix slowly and eerily sifting its hands through my gray hair.

There is little room for religion in my realm of inspiration. Any structure which strives to strengthen oppressive relations in our society, between men and women or rulers and their subjects, must be actively fought against and stripped of its affluent and mystifying drapery.

However, for billions of people around the world, the oceanic feeling of belonging to something greater than the materialistic mess choking our minds, offers a personal escape to purgation, a complete cleansing, an intimacy with the beauty of the skies. To them, I offer my condolences, the death of their potential continues to serve as a reminder of the limited times we live in.

In these words, however, I wash my hands of the cold calculated lifeless secularism that most critics of religion hold with a religious fervor of their own. A refusal of the culture and presence of religion, steeped in scientific development and artistic antagonism, is white supremacy of the highest quality.

For Canadians, or any other colonial settler population, to reject the notion of religion in a wholesale fashion as a regressive and underdeveloped way of life is a farcical notion, in perfect wedlock with their superiority syndrome, serenaded by self righteous notions of democracy. Capitalism, with all its trap doors and torture chambers, offers religiousness no alternative. It is a rabid fox let loose in a farm of grounded chickens, consuming and commodifying anything and anyone in its way.

It is here, where capitalism and religion monopolize our choice, that a third alternative will be born. Whether the new road will be colored with the respect for all or be polluted with the wishes of the few, remains to be a battle waging fiercely around us, in spite of our eternal lull.

Music Please

A corner stone of any religion is the symbolism assigned to the cast of characters employed in the production of stories, dramatized to encapsulate one's allegiance and energies in an oath of eternal faith and submission.

For me, the traits of many these individuals remain idealistically nestled in the stars that illuminate my night. One such figure is Sukayna, daughter of Hussein, Islam's iconic martyr, who died in the pursuit of justice, on the river banks of the Euphrates, in Karbala, one hundred kilometres southwest of Baghdad. Her perseverance in the face of oppression is a sharp contrast to the oppression in the face of perseverance, eminating from the religious elite in Kerbala today, waging war against civil society in occupied Iraq.

In tribute to her, we have named our first song, composed in the cozy confines of our living room, "The Scream of Sukayna." There are millions of Sukaynas in Iraq and throughout the world that carry their dignity and beauty with them as they fight patriarchy and violence, at times in the holiest of places. To them, I apologize for the recent signs of self pity that I have been symptomatic of. I have no right to wade in the cesspool of boredom, and present it as some major calamity, when scores of people scour the dirty floors of dirtier banks and churches for food and freedom.

The aforementioned track, a big hit in waiting, is a lively creation set to the beats of Mustafa, lifted by the guitaristic glory of Deline, and grounded by the bass lines of yours truly. Our humble ensemble is a reflection of what does truly act as an inspiration in times of great voids: being constantly surrounded by beautiful and loving people, a list topped off by my family and Saron.

Missing Mina

At times, I feel like I have lived a million lifetimes to reach the tales of today. Memories seem to come out of every corner of my soul, like water pouring through the breached walls of an ancient dam. At times, these retro-reflections can furnish the world with heavenly highs, while in other instances, looking back pierces my eyes with hot searing rusty knives. However when it comes to missing those whom you love, memories always come in flavors of two: the joy of being enriched by their presence in your life, and the pain of longing for their physical presence in your life.

One such friend is Mina, affectionately known as Monmon by the colossal circle of friends which she courts. I first met Mina in the classrooms of York, where we both studied the science of politics at a time when the words on the board leapt at us to commemorate the destruction of our beloved Iraq.

Since then, Mina has tirelessly carved out a huge palace in my heart, fitting accommodation for a modern descendant of a royal dynasty stretching from Iraq to the rest of the world. I mostly miss Mina's stubborn stances on issues that she has taught me greatly on. Coffee and tea with Mina and me seem so far at times, and as each day passes, the distance seems to expand. But, as I type these words, her distinct laugh brings a smile to my face that I have missed for weeks.

Thank you Mina.

So What's It Gonna Be?

Nothing much has happened since our last conversation. Our discussions, carefully crafted by characters colliding into each other's cyberspace, seem so distant, like days preceding colonialism. In Doha, time's only competition is the relentless buildup of sand on picturesque dunes tucked away neatly behind bulging buildings.

Days slowly slide into each other to perfectly complete the picture of bland nothingness comparable only to Obama's next diplomatic delight. Writing under these conditions is a gut wrenching experience where the mind wrestles to grab metaphors out of nothing to color the white bleached dishdashas (traditional Arabic robes) dotting the desert.

I am falling victim to the mind numbing silence that so loudly permeates through my soul. My thoughts revolve around the play by play developments of days gone by. The coldness of my drink seems to worm its way deeper through my mind than the state of affairs shaping the new face of global fascism looming over our lives.

It has been almost three months since I made what seems to be an ill advised move to this corner of the world. Promises of exciting employment have yet to materialize, leaving me with a sense of non-accomplishment and misdirection.

A potential trip to Baghdad could salvage the losses suffered during this time, but such a trek seems tepered by a lack of funds, and more importantly, a shortage in support from my family, who is pushed further away from the idea by the recent spike of explosions in Iraq's capital city. There is still a possibility that I will be able to lose myself, and potentially my life, in the place I love the most, but much energy will need to be spent to achieve such gains.

I feel like I am writing out the final chapters of my life, not because of the dangers dug deep in my return from diaspora, but because of the rustification of my mind. An invasive dose of Arab satellite television and an illuminating aura of individualism seem to be decorating my grave right before my eyes, and under my dirty fingernails. Also, there is always the small possibility of death that accompanies each trip I take on the lonely accessible taxi in Qatar equipped with a wobbly weary worn down electric lift that seems ready to crumble on any given day.

A series of recent pilgrimages to the hospital could also be accentuating my mortal melodrama. Seeing the faces of hundreds of broken down construction workers wandering the halls of the country's central medical facility acts as a humble reminder of the privilege we possess, always prettily posing as the nature of things.

Perhaps it is here, where the corrosion of one's mind collides with the atrophy of our physical state, that the soul truly dies. May tomorrow bring life and inspiration to those who need it the most: me.