"Israel is luring international artists to Tel Aviv to advance a false claim to being a civilized democracy." Desmond Tutu
In the absence of social movements, critical masses, and revolutionary struggles, culture emerges as one of the most effective tools of silencing dissent.
The monopolization of cultural spaces such as film festivals, concerts, art galleries, and publications by an social economic class obsessed with maintaing the status quo produces art branded in a particular way.
Irrelevant, self obsessed, isolated works are heralded as masterful creations while more poignant and powerful pieces are dismissed as being too literal and immature. The existential elite love to wade in a cesspool of abstract asthma, where concepts touch each other for the sole purpose of sensual stimulation. At times, when questioning tyranny is trendy and safe, glimpses into counter culture are allowed, but not long enough to invoke a consciousness that would threaten the existing establishment.
In the world of contemporary cultural production, money is the most popularly used colour, the most recognized musical chord, and the most dominant writing style. The death sentence issued by capitalism to free thinkers, determined to use art as a vehicle for change, means that the sell out train is overcrowded with greedy talent. It also means that the means of producing and distributing art are painfully beyond the reach of those who need to express themselves the most.
From Hip Hop to Cinema, the consumption of historically radical content by apathetic racist youth over the years has caught the eye of large corporations bent on reaping profit off anything. The appropriation of critical art by the same companies that sell everything from cookies to cars has seen the emergence of sound posing as music and movements mistaken for film.
To support this newly found industry, two things have had to open. The systematic breeding of horrible artists, many of whom we are guilty of liking in the same way we like our favourite soft drug; numbing, neatly packaged, and conveniently found everywhere. Secondly, the culture industry has had to ensure the reproduction of infinite generations to consume all this horrendous art.
A particularly painful product has been the emergence of a relatively affluent consumerist bloc that is obsessed with romanticizing poverty and other people's struggles through their patterns of buying material goods. They are hipsters. First seen in the 1940s in the United States, young educated white Americans grabbed the radical might of Jazz and strangled it until it was nothing more than a whitewashed cocktail of cymbals, high hats, and trumpet blasts.
Today, hipsters pose as Kaffiyah clad vegan vultures that have the honour of being the single most important sector of society that has maintained the dominant system of manufacturing and selling culture as a means of oppression. And this applies to all the wealthy parts of the world. From the dehumanized neighbourhoods of Manhattan to the bourgeoisie bubbles of Beirut, mobs of privileged sheltered youth masquerade as militant minds, holding up images of Bob Marley and Chairman Mao on overpriced T Shirts as part of their comfortable part time resistance.
Their presence is specifically excruciating because of their take on and role in worldly affairs. To hipsters, East African food is good, but the colonization of Africa is none of their business, and in fact, might have never happened. In Hipsterville, the Sitar is a beautiful instrument, but any knowledge of it beyond how it looks from a distance, is just too much to handle in their busy schedule of consuming watered down Buddhism and other post colonial kitsch.
But, with hipsters, their racism is not just a passive byproduct of their ignorance. In the Arab world, messy haired maggots with differently branded shoes will regularly be caught in double speak between flowery praise for the rights of women and talking down to South Asian workers on the streets of the Gulf.
In the end, being cultured means being able to buy other people's culture and use it to uphold a system that oppresses those from which they appropriated their latest fad. In turn, most cultural institutions emerge as shopping centers that service this psychopathic derivative of colonialism.
Until next time, find a wall and write on it, and locate some canvas, and start a fight on it.
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Friday's Weather Forecast
Clouds only speak when they move. Otherwise, their majestic silence holds water and weather, and sadness and pleasure in one stretched out moment of chemical calmness. Tomorrow, the skies will be spotless like the floors of a shopping mall forcefully cleaned to death by a lifeless labourer bearing the full brunt of capitalism. The season of suffering is here to stay.
At most, a few months of rain will shower flocks of wild consumers with cheap cologne handed out by sellout gods. The resulting flooded roads might secretly try to cleanse concrete blocks infested with decades of shame but, as an ironic alternative, will probably force sewage out to greet the greediest of feet. A pathetic storm for pathetic times. For now, the only trickle that meets the eye is that of a sweaty workforce, melting under the heat of a persistent summer.
Stories of snow capped escapes will continue to wet the appetites of millions of desperately sedated citizens, while an electric breeze will play silly pop tunes throughout the week. The sun is due to set soon, and will rise from the remains of his relaxed pocket tomorrow at noon.
Until, then, the night is yours to set on fire.
At most, a few months of rain will shower flocks of wild consumers with cheap cologne handed out by sellout gods. The resulting flooded roads might secretly try to cleanse concrete blocks infested with decades of shame but, as an ironic alternative, will probably force sewage out to greet the greediest of feet. A pathetic storm for pathetic times. For now, the only trickle that meets the eye is that of a sweaty workforce, melting under the heat of a persistent summer.
Stories of snow capped escapes will continue to wet the appetites of millions of desperately sedated citizens, while an electric breeze will play silly pop tunes throughout the week. The sun is due to set soon, and will rise from the remains of his relaxed pocket tomorrow at noon.
Until, then, the night is yours to set on fire.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Back to the Blog
"Between my sea and another" - Karim Sultan
It has only been a few hours since the last broken pencil was surgically removed from my broken torso, and yet, I find myself immersed, head first, into another sea of liquefied amnesia. But, according to our invisible neighbor, with his tongue solidly stuck in my ear, "these are the trials and tribulations of trying to write."
It has been Manama, Cairo, and New York since we last spoke and despite the long procession of days, dilated and depressed, little has changed around me. Tall blood-covered buildings still surround me and apathy and greed continue to bound me.
In Iraq, where the lion's share of my soul rests restlessly, destruction continues to dance to the tune of American occupation. From Mosul to Basra, echoes of "elections" gone by bounce off broken dreams. Thousands of years of literary and poetic might fail to capture the incompetency of the Iraqi government. Theft, corruption, nepotism, and murder have become words that struggle and fail to describe the complete scope of criminality involved in the mis-governance of Iraq.
Over the last seven years, every single injustice carried out against Iraq, and Iraqis worldwide, has been whitewashed and swept under a carpet of carefully calculated confusion. The occupation has either been perversely compared to liberation or it has been diagnosed as the product of historic sectarian violence. Both of which are untrue.
As a result of this foggy fanfare, the guilty are allowed to perpetually elude the guilt. Bloody hands and gluttonous pockets taunt the rotten skies of Baghdad. Around the world, self proclaimed Iraqis sing the praise of the American government louder than they pathetically cheer for their favorite European soccer team. For most, the death of Iraq justifies their exile. A self preserved elite coated by their distance from the waging war zone has boasted the Iraqi government's efforts to portray itself as an outfit of subservient civil servants bogged down by unsurmountable circumstances.
The same old tune rings out like the silent hammering of rain on tin cholera infested roofs. "They are not thieves, they are protectors of Iraq's wealth. They are not murderers, they are defenders of the poor. They are not sectarian, they are the people's choice." A much anticipated Peaceful Obama Remix is to be released soon.
In Palestine, where ghosts from a past life haunt me, the peace process industry finally succumbs to its natural fate: nothingness. Desperate attempts by Mahmoud Abbas and the rusty crust of his Palestinian Authority to sell what remains of the dignity of the Arab world fall apart under the shoes of Zionist racism. Settlers settle, F16s fire, and the Wall wages war without waste.
As we approach the sixty third year of the existence of the State of Israel, synonymous with ethnic cleansing, Apartheid, and genocide, the greatest weapon in the hands of the settler colonial state is the increasing indifference of Arab youth to Palestine.
An allergic reaction to dictator dispersed nationalist mantra and a self hating fever dashed with racism and misogyny color the skin of Arab youth. This disease will naturally vary in its intensity depending on class and proximity to death, but, nonetheless, the general theme applies.
In most parts of the Arab world, minorities are forced to make the choice between marginalized progressive elements and sellout mainstream monsters. Either you suffer with the fragmented ideals of an Arab world, united by language and liberty, respectful of everyone's rights, or you take the ethnic express straight to Washington DC, where the empire eats everyone's ethnicity equally; the passport please.
The much anticipated absence of any wide reaching progressive political project in the Arab world is the life beneath the wings of corporate vultures, stripping the land of any of its weight. Resistance is readily replaced with Rolexes, and tyranny is served hot from your nearest foreign military base.
Direct flights across the Atlantic spin the illusion that exile is nearing its end. But Toronto tortures me with its towering presence, always over my shoulders, whispering voices of my forgotten family, flashing images of a life gone by. Here, my megaphone is muted, my writing looks wrong, and my activism is not-at-all. Every day, I waft through the wonders of working for people with disabilities in a society crippled by its own misconceptions.
I rarely see the light of day, despite the determined gaze of the brilliant sun. Ironically, I know no rest in a city defined by its laziness. This is the Doha Daze. But amidst the apocalyptic drama, my heart beats against the ground, stripping everyone in sight of their uneasy slumber. Love strikes again, lifting me to the limits of life and beyond. My fate rejects defeat and brings me to the arms of a woman whose might is woven by brilliance and beauty.
Sprinkled with the surreal strength of her presence, my once convoluted vision of victory is back to where it has always been: within reach.
It has only been a few hours since the last broken pencil was surgically removed from my broken torso, and yet, I find myself immersed, head first, into another sea of liquefied amnesia. But, according to our invisible neighbor, with his tongue solidly stuck in my ear, "these are the trials and tribulations of trying to write."
It has been Manama, Cairo, and New York since we last spoke and despite the long procession of days, dilated and depressed, little has changed around me. Tall blood-covered buildings still surround me and apathy and greed continue to bound me.
In Iraq, where the lion's share of my soul rests restlessly, destruction continues to dance to the tune of American occupation. From Mosul to Basra, echoes of "elections" gone by bounce off broken dreams. Thousands of years of literary and poetic might fail to capture the incompetency of the Iraqi government. Theft, corruption, nepotism, and murder have become words that struggle and fail to describe the complete scope of criminality involved in the mis-governance of Iraq.
Over the last seven years, every single injustice carried out against Iraq, and Iraqis worldwide, has been whitewashed and swept under a carpet of carefully calculated confusion. The occupation has either been perversely compared to liberation or it has been diagnosed as the product of historic sectarian violence. Both of which are untrue.
As a result of this foggy fanfare, the guilty are allowed to perpetually elude the guilt. Bloody hands and gluttonous pockets taunt the rotten skies of Baghdad. Around the world, self proclaimed Iraqis sing the praise of the American government louder than they pathetically cheer for their favorite European soccer team. For most, the death of Iraq justifies their exile. A self preserved elite coated by their distance from the waging war zone has boasted the Iraqi government's efforts to portray itself as an outfit of subservient civil servants bogged down by unsurmountable circumstances.
The same old tune rings out like the silent hammering of rain on tin cholera infested roofs. "They are not thieves, they are protectors of Iraq's wealth. They are not murderers, they are defenders of the poor. They are not sectarian, they are the people's choice." A much anticipated Peaceful Obama Remix is to be released soon.
In Palestine, where ghosts from a past life haunt me, the peace process industry finally succumbs to its natural fate: nothingness. Desperate attempts by Mahmoud Abbas and the rusty crust of his Palestinian Authority to sell what remains of the dignity of the Arab world fall apart under the shoes of Zionist racism. Settlers settle, F16s fire, and the Wall wages war without waste.
As we approach the sixty third year of the existence of the State of Israel, synonymous with ethnic cleansing, Apartheid, and genocide, the greatest weapon in the hands of the settler colonial state is the increasing indifference of Arab youth to Palestine.
An allergic reaction to dictator dispersed nationalist mantra and a self hating fever dashed with racism and misogyny color the skin of Arab youth. This disease will naturally vary in its intensity depending on class and proximity to death, but, nonetheless, the general theme applies.
In most parts of the Arab world, minorities are forced to make the choice between marginalized progressive elements and sellout mainstream monsters. Either you suffer with the fragmented ideals of an Arab world, united by language and liberty, respectful of everyone's rights, or you take the ethnic express straight to Washington DC, where the empire eats everyone's ethnicity equally; the passport please.
The much anticipated absence of any wide reaching progressive political project in the Arab world is the life beneath the wings of corporate vultures, stripping the land of any of its weight. Resistance is readily replaced with Rolexes, and tyranny is served hot from your nearest foreign military base.
Direct flights across the Atlantic spin the illusion that exile is nearing its end. But Toronto tortures me with its towering presence, always over my shoulders, whispering voices of my forgotten family, flashing images of a life gone by. Here, my megaphone is muted, my writing looks wrong, and my activism is not-at-all. Every day, I waft through the wonders of working for people with disabilities in a society crippled by its own misconceptions.
I rarely see the light of day, despite the determined gaze of the brilliant sun. Ironically, I know no rest in a city defined by its laziness. This is the Doha Daze. But amidst the apocalyptic drama, my heart beats against the ground, stripping everyone in sight of their uneasy slumber. Love strikes again, lifting me to the limits of life and beyond. My fate rejects defeat and brings me to the arms of a woman whose might is woven by brilliance and beauty.
Sprinkled with the surreal strength of her presence, my once convoluted vision of victory is back to where it has always been: within reach.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
On a Broken Ship
The first time I met her, all of my life, sat on that empty chair beside her while she spoke. Her name was Palestine, a name divinely chosen for a face so divine. She held all of my existence in the depth of her eyes.
She had moved to Toronto from Baghdad less than six months ago. A warrior blessed by the water of Tigris, she blessed the coffee shop in which we sat. Every eye and mechanical chat fought for space at the bottom of her feet, just to feel sweet, being so close to those crowns for the streets.
The way she curved the smoke filled hours of the night with her words held court on the highway resort. Small bags stuffed with sugar danced to the sensational rhythm of her tongue.
I feared losing Palestine on a conveyor belt of empty boxes. I threw my love across her seas. My eyes begged please for a taste of her lips. In awe, walls began fearing the weight of her smile.
Moments lined up themselves along the edge of the table, staring at her might. Her fingers sparkled with life in the face of winter's death. I would lose my breath if I counted all the beauty in her strength.
Iraq, personified. Time, wisdom, strength, grief, and poetry coloured her armoured cheeks. Her name was Palestine, and that is how we met.
She had moved to Toronto from Baghdad less than six months ago. A warrior blessed by the water of Tigris, she blessed the coffee shop in which we sat. Every eye and mechanical chat fought for space at the bottom of her feet, just to feel sweet, being so close to those crowns for the streets.
The way she curved the smoke filled hours of the night with her words held court on the highway resort. Small bags stuffed with sugar danced to the sensational rhythm of her tongue.
I feared losing Palestine on a conveyor belt of empty boxes. I threw my love across her seas. My eyes begged please for a taste of her lips. In awe, walls began fearing the weight of her smile.
Moments lined up themselves along the edge of the table, staring at her might. Her fingers sparkled with life in the face of winter's death. I would lose my breath if I counted all the beauty in her strength.
Iraq, personified. Time, wisdom, strength, grief, and poetry coloured her armoured cheeks. Her name was Palestine, and that is how we met.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Spoken Baghdad
I wrote this piece a few years ago on a sticky smoky morning. I never performed it live. Today, I recorded it for an inspirational artist and fighter, Sundus Abdul Hadi. Please read it and let me know where it sits in your world.
--------------
What's my relationship to God?
Where was he when they killed Baghdad?
City left to rot
Perpetrators took pride in the act and no one was caught
Systematic theft of life key to the murder plot
Canadian flags were used to choke me trying to convince me that I forgot
How my home looked before its soul was wrapped up in a knot
And scribbled on dirty Dinars dripping in blood mixed with oil drops
My brothers were filling graves and babies went missing from their cots
And generations were sold to the nearest nation building shop
Where massacres would be carried out by the cops
And kids turned thugs tell you stop
And drop
your name and which religion you chose to adopt
And wrong answers will mean that you're popped
Unless of course you died from the bombs that were dropped
Or the thirteen years of sanctions that killed one point five million in what was another forgotten holocaust
And yes, Iraqis are being killed at their own cost
Meaning that they are paying for everything from American marines to a so called government that is mourning when these baby killers are lost
Or applauding soldiers lucky enough to get shot
or smart enough to gain a lesson taught
in that Fallujah resists till the last pop
And what, now they want a podium to stand on top?
And now preach their regrets for the Iraqi people
thats like telling the indigenous that liberation is gonna come from the steeple
or that Palestinians will see no evil just as long as they forget about the destroyed villages under the feet of Tel Avivers
and all these other racist ways in which we perceive
people's rights
telling Iraqis when to fight
and its ok to write just as long as you don't ignite
a gunfight in the middle of the night
to take back what's rightfully mine
i need to see each line as a piece of shrapnel in the spine
of those fighting this so called divine battle
where people are turned into cattle
waiting to be slaughtered
as the days get hotter
coffins decorate our sons and daughters
we have two of the longest sweetest rivers but we're still searching for water
we all knew that Operation Iraqi Freedom meant death
and none of us mistook any of the promises as a new breath
instead, we looked at it as an excuse for more theft
and now look what's left
what's my option
now that I've been sold in an auction
where Canada won me or hopefully lost in
but Iraq will be back as women refuse to die jumping back in your face from the graves in which they were tossed in
we must
we don't even have trust
for neighbors that share the same wind gust
it is to Syria and Amman that are future is being bussed
and Baghdad how can you be gone?
I dream of kissing you in the nights of Ramadan
with the lighter on
keep your hat tighter on
there's a military jet fighter on his way
and today he plans to take away the right to play
and the right to sway
and say what's on your mind
like hi my name is Baghdad and I love Palestine
and thieves will meet with thugs in ways that are clandestine
behind mosques
and sing songs
of how long they pretend to have struggled
not knowing all they bring is trouble and rubble
and strengthen the bubble
in which we live
Baghdad who will you forgive
will i be able to come back, stand, and live with
i am ashamed
you are brave
standing in the face of thieves and soldiers using their rifles to rape cripple and maim
and all i can do is write poetry that's lame.
--------------
What's my relationship to God?
Where was he when they killed Baghdad?
City left to rot
Perpetrators took pride in the act and no one was caught
Systematic theft of life key to the murder plot
Canadian flags were used to choke me trying to convince me that I forgot
How my home looked before its soul was wrapped up in a knot
And scribbled on dirty Dinars dripping in blood mixed with oil drops
My brothers were filling graves and babies went missing from their cots
And generations were sold to the nearest nation building shop
Where massacres would be carried out by the cops
And kids turned thugs tell you stop
And drop
your name and which religion you chose to adopt
And wrong answers will mean that you're popped
Unless of course you died from the bombs that were dropped
Or the thirteen years of sanctions that killed one point five million in what was another forgotten holocaust
And yes, Iraqis are being killed at their own cost
Meaning that they are paying for everything from American marines to a so called government that is mourning when these baby killers are lost
Or applauding soldiers lucky enough to get shot
or smart enough to gain a lesson taught
in that Fallujah resists till the last pop
And what, now they want a podium to stand on top?
And now preach their regrets for the Iraqi people
thats like telling the indigenous that liberation is gonna come from the steeple
or that Palestinians will see no evil just as long as they forget about the destroyed villages under the feet of Tel Avivers
and all these other racist ways in which we perceive
people's rights
telling Iraqis when to fight
and its ok to write just as long as you don't ignite
a gunfight in the middle of the night
to take back what's rightfully mine
i need to see each line as a piece of shrapnel in the spine
of those fighting this so called divine battle
where people are turned into cattle
waiting to be slaughtered
as the days get hotter
coffins decorate our sons and daughters
we have two of the longest sweetest rivers but we're still searching for water
we all knew that Operation Iraqi Freedom meant death
and none of us mistook any of the promises as a new breath
instead, we looked at it as an excuse for more theft
and now look what's left
what's my option
now that I've been sold in an auction
where Canada won me or hopefully lost in
but Iraq will be back as women refuse to die jumping back in your face from the graves in which they were tossed in
we must
we don't even have trust
for neighbors that share the same wind gust
it is to Syria and Amman that are future is being bussed
and Baghdad how can you be gone?
I dream of kissing you in the nights of Ramadan
with the lighter on
keep your hat tighter on
there's a military jet fighter on his way
and today he plans to take away the right to play
and the right to sway
and say what's on your mind
like hi my name is Baghdad and I love Palestine
and thieves will meet with thugs in ways that are clandestine
behind mosques
and sing songs
of how long they pretend to have struggled
not knowing all they bring is trouble and rubble
and strengthen the bubble
in which we live
Baghdad who will you forgive
will i be able to come back, stand, and live with
i am ashamed
you are brave
standing in the face of thieves and soldiers using their rifles to rape cripple and maim
and all i can do is write poetry that's lame.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Spelling Mistake
I recently sent this email.
Dear Iraqi National Congress, I recently visited your website which surprisingly was uglier than Ahmed Al Chalabi himself, and I realized that you spelt the word, "liberation," wrong.
For a word that you have used repeatedly to cover your crimes against Iraqis, I would hope that you could spell it correctly. I'm not a big fan of spelling, I usually find it to be an elitist obstacle to accessible language. But since you love elitist obstacles to accessibility, I thought I would let you know.
I also recommend that you incorporate more "blood red" and "dollar green" in your website color scheme. I'm sure that would cheer up Mr. Chalabi, seeing that he got such little votes in an election he has worked so hard to rig.
Love, Ahmed Habib :)
Dear Iraqi National Congress, I recently visited your website which surprisingly was uglier than Ahmed Al Chalabi himself, and I realized that you spelt the word, "liberation," wrong.
For a word that you have used repeatedly to cover your crimes against Iraqis, I would hope that you could spell it correctly. I'm not a big fan of spelling, I usually find it to be an elitist obstacle to accessible language. But since you love elitist obstacles to accessibility, I thought I would let you know.
I also recommend that you incorporate more "blood red" and "dollar green" in your website color scheme. I'm sure that would cheer up Mr. Chalabi, seeing that he got such little votes in an election he has worked so hard to rig.
Love, Ahmed Habib :)
Saturday, December 5, 2009
reportback: Remembering Iraq*
This is a summary of what we organized yesterday, hoping it will inspire you to organize similar events in your exile.
Yesterday, approximately twenty Iraqi youth from various backgrounds gathered in Doha to unravel the different layers of their identities in a night of “Remembering Iraq.” The event was organized by a small number of young Iraqis striving to create a space where art and culture can be used as a vehicle for discussion and expression during times when young voices seem to be muted by overbearing and destructive discussions.
The night kicked off with an outdoor screening of “Fragments in Iraq,” where the eyes of viewers followed the tremendous experiences of Mohammed, an eleven year old boy living and working in Baghdad. The film, beautifully shot with a simple digital camera, brought the larger than life sights and sounds of a city and people dealing with the aftermath of war to the makeshift theatre. Although organizers chose not to show the entirety of the film due to time constraints, the cinematic experience was a great boost for a night that would be filled with creativity and expression.
Following the film, seats were arranged in a circle to facilitate the next segment: Show and Tell. Attendees were asked to bring an item or story to share with the rest of the group as a way of allowing one’s identity to reflect on the experience of the other. It was also a tremendous learning experience for people to hear the streets and people of Iraq speak through the stories that were being told. Many of the memories told were very intimate, describing days of loss, separation, and longing. Others spoke of the beauty of Baghdad, and her ability to overcome all that which is thrown at her. Some of the participants, discussed the presence of Iraq in their lives outside the country.
By this time in the night, Baghdad was everywhere. On the tongues, in the eyes, between the hands, and all across the hearts of the group. As the story circle parted, a large piece of canvas was unrolled and participants were asked to paint a large mural to Iraq, her people, and her place in people’s consciousnesses. For two hours, people buzzed around the painting adding words, cutouts, paint strokes, tire marks, and glitter to create an embodiment of their night. The painting, left to dry overnight, will always act as a catalyst for further discussion and action.
After food, the night extended into the early hours of the morning with an open mic segment where song, dance, and poetry serenaded Iraq, and the beauty of her people. People went away feeling empowered, and ready to organize bigger and better events.
The strength of yesterday’s event doesn’t only lie in its ability to capture and share broken memories, but in its strength in paving a way for the future where Iraqi youth are active participants in the fate of their country and Iraqi communities all around the world.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
This is the fall.
Inspired by Sarah Reaburn, written to the sounds of Jadal, and dedicated to the season I love the most.
"How sweet, golden emboldened love letters crunching under her feet, nature in repeat, ushering away the heat, and living off heart beats,
this is the fall, when love meets winter in an empty hall, and dances to the sounds of hands clinging on to each other to break down walls, stars decorate the skies like disco balls, and the only thing we hear are stories of a summer-gone-by on endless broken phone calls,
this the fall, when strength comes together like kids burning down the mall, when magic forgets money because now they're selling nothing at your nearest stall, people feeling dignified like those shedding trees that stand so tall
this is the fall, where all knows all, like Maoist rebels and lonely mothers in Nepal, or lovers making thread out of trust to sew each other colorful shawls, the way the sun crawls over grassy parks and chocolate waterfalls is all-in-all just something to die for after all,
How sweet, when will they meet, like revolutionary thoughts taking all the talk to the streets, nature in repeat, when cold decorates the world with colors living and dying under her feet."
"How sweet, golden emboldened love letters crunching under her feet, nature in repeat, ushering away the heat, and living off heart beats,
this is the fall, when love meets winter in an empty hall, and dances to the sounds of hands clinging on to each other to break down walls, stars decorate the skies like disco balls, and the only thing we hear are stories of a summer-gone-by on endless broken phone calls,
this the fall, when strength comes together like kids burning down the mall, when magic forgets money because now they're selling nothing at your nearest stall, people feeling dignified like those shedding trees that stand so tall
this is the fall, where all knows all, like Maoist rebels and lonely mothers in Nepal, or lovers making thread out of trust to sew each other colorful shawls, the way the sun crawls over grassy parks and chocolate waterfalls is all-in-all just something to die for after all,
How sweet, when will they meet, like revolutionary thoughts taking all the talk to the streets, nature in repeat, when cold decorates the world with colors living and dying under her feet."
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Damaged.
On the train, our words held on to each other, refusing to let go. They lost themselves to the meaningless movements of other people's mechanical mouths. Letters sat in other letters' laps, small sentences got together with bigger sentences for warmth, and unspoken words took comfort in the presence of dancing eyes.
Paper reaches out to kiss the touch of my pen when I write about her. Saron. Lovers no more. Love beaten to death by exile, mutilated by denial, buried beneath a pile of broken promises. I knock on the windows of offices, and look for life in a paycheck. Broken necks and tasteless smiles come together like thieves and missing files. Lovers no more. I stand at my door, praying for rain to wash away the shame, but all remains the same, like the day Baghdad fell to her knees, but nobody came. Lovers no more. Standing on the shores of complacency, I beg the sea to take me to where I can beg and plea for forgiveness, but not for return. Once a poem is burned, all we can hope for are golden ashes to take turns in kissing the sky, and waiting for a moment to sit under our bleeding eyes.
I can never articulate the extent to which Saron made me a better person. Her version of the truth, long nights of kissing and loving through and through, brought the revolution closer to me and you. She stood on top of benches, and taught the wind how to move. She exposed the beauty of fighting diaspora through every curve and every groove. In every field of life, even those where the grass was replaced by an abundance of strife, her mind and its prowess cut through obstacles like a fearless knife. She showed me life in a light that I will never see again. I can't pretend that there are beginnings after every end. We can't even be friends, and now I spend moments like palm trees refusing to bend under the fire of Americans.
Saron, if these words are graced by the magic of your eyes, their size is no reflection of the state in which my heart lies. When love dies, the sea itself will capsize. So with no surprise, I take that which you gave me and color the skies, drawing circles and stars and planets with thick lines.
Moving Forward
The heart will never forget, even if the mind goes on its knees and begs. But like days decorating the dignity of Iraq, I won't stop. Love is there sitting on rooftops waiting for candy coated raindrops to pop.
In Doha, my world slowly unravels itself to the sounds of stubborn doors. I am thankful for the presence of love in my life. I have met the most beautiful souls, radically juxtaposing themselves against the cruelty of the falsely assembled cold. I dream of Toronto, and the songs written on the faces of my friends. But being within the reach of Bethlehem, Beirut, Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad heals my worldly wounds.
So many of the people here need to be described to you by me, but can't you see, writing on these pages is a tiring feat.
So with a little rest, I'll be back, like sunrises that can't wait to see Israeli soldiers getting smacked.
Paper reaches out to kiss the touch of my pen when I write about her. Saron. Lovers no more. Love beaten to death by exile, mutilated by denial, buried beneath a pile of broken promises. I knock on the windows of offices, and look for life in a paycheck. Broken necks and tasteless smiles come together like thieves and missing files. Lovers no more. I stand at my door, praying for rain to wash away the shame, but all remains the same, like the day Baghdad fell to her knees, but nobody came. Lovers no more. Standing on the shores of complacency, I beg the sea to take me to where I can beg and plea for forgiveness, but not for return. Once a poem is burned, all we can hope for are golden ashes to take turns in kissing the sky, and waiting for a moment to sit under our bleeding eyes.
I can never articulate the extent to which Saron made me a better person. Her version of the truth, long nights of kissing and loving through and through, brought the revolution closer to me and you. She stood on top of benches, and taught the wind how to move. She exposed the beauty of fighting diaspora through every curve and every groove. In every field of life, even those where the grass was replaced by an abundance of strife, her mind and its prowess cut through obstacles like a fearless knife. She showed me life in a light that I will never see again. I can't pretend that there are beginnings after every end. We can't even be friends, and now I spend moments like palm trees refusing to bend under the fire of Americans.
Saron, if these words are graced by the magic of your eyes, their size is no reflection of the state in which my heart lies. When love dies, the sea itself will capsize. So with no surprise, I take that which you gave me and color the skies, drawing circles and stars and planets with thick lines.
Moving Forward
The heart will never forget, even if the mind goes on its knees and begs. But like days decorating the dignity of Iraq, I won't stop. Love is there sitting on rooftops waiting for candy coated raindrops to pop.
In Doha, my world slowly unravels itself to the sounds of stubborn doors. I am thankful for the presence of love in my life. I have met the most beautiful souls, radically juxtaposing themselves against the cruelty of the falsely assembled cold. I dream of Toronto, and the songs written on the faces of my friends. But being within the reach of Bethlehem, Beirut, Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad heals my worldly wounds.
So many of the people here need to be described to you by me, but can't you see, writing on these pages is a tiring feat.
So with a little rest, I'll be back, like sunrises that can't wait to see Israeli soldiers getting smacked.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
From Baghdad With Love.
A virtual message I sent to Palestinian singer Makadi Nahhas, here is a sampling of her voice for you to hear while you read this. Thank you Yazen for making this connection.
There you are, dignified and strong, colored by the love of Iraq, decorated by the beauty of Palestine, singing on behalf of millions of silenced mothers, touching the hearts of countless dehumanized brothers, reaching for the stars with every song that you unleash, more powerful than greed and evil killing machines, inspiring exiled lovers, setting the night on fire, bringing revolution to the mind, struggling with a sea of despair, and holding on to what's slipping away from beneath our feet.
These are difficult days, defined by millions of occupied minds, with their lives resting precariously on their shoulders, standing on top of wary mountaintops, watching the destruction of their homes, filled with memories, painted with culture, and built with the blood of their fathers.
Through your music, life breathes, a voice filled with hope, imagination, desperately brushing away the pain engraved in the words that you bring.
There you are, and here I am. Falling in and out of life, watching my days without Baghdad pass by like blurry roadside scenes reaching through a blood drenched window. But, with every medium molded by the magic of Makadi, there is another day.
Thank you.
Ahmed Habib
There you are, dignified and strong, colored by the love of Iraq, decorated by the beauty of Palestine, singing on behalf of millions of silenced mothers, touching the hearts of countless dehumanized brothers, reaching for the stars with every song that you unleash, more powerful than greed and evil killing machines, inspiring exiled lovers, setting the night on fire, bringing revolution to the mind, struggling with a sea of despair, and holding on to what's slipping away from beneath our feet.
These are difficult days, defined by millions of occupied minds, with their lives resting precariously on their shoulders, standing on top of wary mountaintops, watching the destruction of their homes, filled with memories, painted with culture, and built with the blood of their fathers.
Through your music, life breathes, a voice filled with hope, imagination, desperately brushing away the pain engraved in the words that you bring.
There you are, and here I am. Falling in and out of life, watching my days without Baghdad pass by like blurry roadside scenes reaching through a blood drenched window. But, with every medium molded by the magic of Makadi, there is another day.
Thank you.
Ahmed Habib
Sunday, September 20, 2009
3eediya!
Written on a tipsy tight wire to the sounds of Furat Qadduori's "The Hanging Gardens."
Most of the children that day were carrying on secret conversations with the beaten down houses dotting the street. In Baghdad, our homes, palaces of pain and perseverance, are witness to everything that passes through the night, every fight, every bright light, every love at first sight.
The sounds of Mazeeqa and Tabul (trumpet and drum) permeated through the stagnant air, and perfectly articulated the story of my life. A murderous sanctions regime was at its height, and muffled sounds of misery were the only musical notes people heard. The change in rhythm was a welcome breeze, like a cool night of Basrawi watermelon worship. Iraqi dancing is filled with strength and dignity, flowing strongly like the timeless currents of her two rivers, and throwing around its anger, like the clenched fists of millions of her revolutionaries.
The looks of mourning mothers pierced through my privilege with ease that day. Smiles put together to keep entire communities from falling apart, stomped on my heart to the beat of the drums. Celebration, in conditions of extreme oppression, is undeniably, a form of resistance.
Nine years ago, Eid, in Baghdad.
Most of the children that day were carrying on secret conversations with the beaten down houses dotting the street. In Baghdad, our homes, palaces of pain and perseverance, are witness to everything that passes through the night, every fight, every bright light, every love at first sight.
The sounds of Mazeeqa and Tabul (trumpet and drum) permeated through the stagnant air, and perfectly articulated the story of my life. A murderous sanctions regime was at its height, and muffled sounds of misery were the only musical notes people heard. The change in rhythm was a welcome breeze, like a cool night of Basrawi watermelon worship. Iraqi dancing is filled with strength and dignity, flowing strongly like the timeless currents of her two rivers, and throwing around its anger, like the clenched fists of millions of her revolutionaries.
The looks of mourning mothers pierced through my privilege with ease that day. Smiles put together to keep entire communities from falling apart, stomped on my heart to the beat of the drums. Celebration, in conditions of extreme oppression, is undeniably, a form of resistance.
Nine years ago, Eid, in Baghdad.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
So?
This is written to the sounds of beating hearts
I found this note, lying on the ground, somewhere between my tired shoes, and dreamy diagrams of your kissable feet.
"This is my last post from Doha. For four months, I have sat on the shores of uncertainty, letting waves of despair beat against my bare soul. With sand in my hair, I have led on a passionate affair with the sun and its eternal source of hope. Sweetness resting on my eyes have accentuated the desperation of humid meaningless nights."
After the etching of those words into permanency, I packed up my pitiful belongings and hopped on the diaspora express, shuttling between Doha and Toronto, carefully evading the beauty of Baghdad. What was touted as a glorious return to the arms of loved ones, my ninety day escape, fizzled under mountains of stress, and took me to where I had always been, straw blowing in the wind.
The never ending saga of sorrow and despair inseparable from separation has taken a permanent spot in my emotional landscape. Once a source of defiant inspiration, longing for Saron has now morphed into a cesspool of uncertainty and fear. These are difficult days.
June 30
One Thousand and One Hundred Twenty Eight kilometers away, Baghdad still burns. A series of explosions in the last two weeks has sent a hundred or so more people to their early graves, and destroyed the lives of hundreds more. The intensity of the fire eating away at Iraq has been steady since the peak of sectarian-ized violence in 2007. At times, "improvements in security," are projected on blood stained walls by gluttonous policy makers and stubborn supporters of Iraq's occupation as a signal of success. However, the reality of destruction still looms large like the shadow cast by the Israeli Apartheid Wall on Palestinians.
Almost three months ago, a newer more dangerous trick was unleashed by the uncontested winners in the race to loot and destroy Iraq. On June 30, the Iraqi government celebrated "Dignity Day" to commemorate the supposed withdrawal of American troops from the country. For the first time in six years, the sky was lit by fireworks, as opposed to the hell unleashed by American or British warplanes. However, the forced fanfare failed to fill the void of freedom and dignity synonymous with democracy in Iraq. Homes remained covered in blood, and lovers wept longer at their state of despair.
In the security agreement signed between America and itself, Iraq will remain under the boots of malicious marines and corrupt contractors for eternity. American control of airspace, permanent military bases, and more importantly, each and every aspect of economic sovereignty, means that the occupation just rebranded itself into a state of normalcy and bitter permanency, two outcomes fiercely opposed by those with dignity in Iraq, and they are the majority.
The relationship between disparate classes remains to be the main driving force behind the political process in Iraq. A sacrilegious elite jousts with a business bourgeoisie to lay claim to the biggest slice of a rotting pie. Sectarian-ized, ethnically cleansed neighborhoods hold on to religious fervor as a means of survival, while millions of undernourished youth savor the taste of sweet dollar stuffed candy. However, history has taught us that neither the Lord nor the Landlord lead to liberty.
Thirty
Birthdays have always been mis-celebrated as achievements of individuality and personal perseverance. Mothers, the givers of life, too often become an after thought on a day that would is irrelevant if it weren't for the magic and might of maternity.
Resilient and radically gorgeous, our mothers light the streets so we can parade through them. On July 23 of this year, I celebrated three decades of being privileged enough to have a mother like mine, Janna.
Web please
In Doha, motionless minds melt in and out of my day. Smoky conversations, liquified laughs, and broken dreams hang themselves from the cracks in my wall. We are in different times, me and the rest. I am haunted by the filthy past, while others choose to rest.
My moments are mostly defined by what flies through my virtual window. Flapping through the night, see through curtains only respond to the fading fight of the fan, allowing anything into my mind.
My words are commodified, carefully combined with complacency, and put into one hundred and forty character wide coffins, before they are shipped off into the sea.
The Internet, with wit in its ways, keeps me leashed to the brightness of my screen. So mean, yet reassuring of the fact that there might be an escape, into a world of greater nothings nestled in between similar scenes of sorrow and ease.
Al-Akhbar
The Toronto International Film Festival recently awarded itself the prize for, "most recent addition to the Israeli propaganda machine."
A spotlight on Tel Aviv, funded by the Israeli Ministry of Foreign affairs, found its way through my act as a journalist, and emerged as an article on Al Jazeera's Website. Dismantling the oppressive monolithic discourse of Zionism is one of the few ways of redemption for what otherwise could be a silly self serving profession.
In other cinematic news, the Doha Tribeca Film Festival sets to unveil itself in a few weeks. A press pass, and a microphone, should be sufficient to broadcast boatfuls of contradictions into your years. My gratitude to Pacifica Radio and Nora is limitless.
However, the next story I am tempted to chase is an examination of the marriage between petrodollars and football, from Manaseer to Manchester.
More
These pages are incomplete impressions, unable to fully capture the beauty of my daily collisions with inspiration. Everyday, I am uplifted and humbled by the resilience of migrant workers, muted mouths, creative queens, and heavenly hearts.
The only way to thank these titans is to write more.
I found this note, lying on the ground, somewhere between my tired shoes, and dreamy diagrams of your kissable feet.
"This is my last post from Doha. For four months, I have sat on the shores of uncertainty, letting waves of despair beat against my bare soul. With sand in my hair, I have led on a passionate affair with the sun and its eternal source of hope. Sweetness resting on my eyes have accentuated the desperation of humid meaningless nights."
After the etching of those words into permanency, I packed up my pitiful belongings and hopped on the diaspora express, shuttling between Doha and Toronto, carefully evading the beauty of Baghdad. What was touted as a glorious return to the arms of loved ones, my ninety day escape, fizzled under mountains of stress, and took me to where I had always been, straw blowing in the wind.
The never ending saga of sorrow and despair inseparable from separation has taken a permanent spot in my emotional landscape. Once a source of defiant inspiration, longing for Saron has now morphed into a cesspool of uncertainty and fear. These are difficult days.
June 30
One Thousand and One Hundred Twenty Eight kilometers away, Baghdad still burns. A series of explosions in the last two weeks has sent a hundred or so more people to their early graves, and destroyed the lives of hundreds more. The intensity of the fire eating away at Iraq has been steady since the peak of sectarian-ized violence in 2007. At times, "improvements in security," are projected on blood stained walls by gluttonous policy makers and stubborn supporters of Iraq's occupation as a signal of success. However, the reality of destruction still looms large like the shadow cast by the Israeli Apartheid Wall on Palestinians.
Almost three months ago, a newer more dangerous trick was unleashed by the uncontested winners in the race to loot and destroy Iraq. On June 30, the Iraqi government celebrated "Dignity Day" to commemorate the supposed withdrawal of American troops from the country. For the first time in six years, the sky was lit by fireworks, as opposed to the hell unleashed by American or British warplanes. However, the forced fanfare failed to fill the void of freedom and dignity synonymous with democracy in Iraq. Homes remained covered in blood, and lovers wept longer at their state of despair.
In the security agreement signed between America and itself, Iraq will remain under the boots of malicious marines and corrupt contractors for eternity. American control of airspace, permanent military bases, and more importantly, each and every aspect of economic sovereignty, means that the occupation just rebranded itself into a state of normalcy and bitter permanency, two outcomes fiercely opposed by those with dignity in Iraq, and they are the majority.
The relationship between disparate classes remains to be the main driving force behind the political process in Iraq. A sacrilegious elite jousts with a business bourgeoisie to lay claim to the biggest slice of a rotting pie. Sectarian-ized, ethnically cleansed neighborhoods hold on to religious fervor as a means of survival, while millions of undernourished youth savor the taste of sweet dollar stuffed candy. However, history has taught us that neither the Lord nor the Landlord lead to liberty.
Thirty
Birthdays have always been mis-celebrated as achievements of individuality and personal perseverance. Mothers, the givers of life, too often become an after thought on a day that would is irrelevant if it weren't for the magic and might of maternity.
Resilient and radically gorgeous, our mothers light the streets so we can parade through them. On July 23 of this year, I celebrated three decades of being privileged enough to have a mother like mine, Janna.
Web please
In Doha, motionless minds melt in and out of my day. Smoky conversations, liquified laughs, and broken dreams hang themselves from the cracks in my wall. We are in different times, me and the rest. I am haunted by the filthy past, while others choose to rest.
My moments are mostly defined by what flies through my virtual window. Flapping through the night, see through curtains only respond to the fading fight of the fan, allowing anything into my mind.
My words are commodified, carefully combined with complacency, and put into one hundred and forty character wide coffins, before they are shipped off into the sea.
The Internet, with wit in its ways, keeps me leashed to the brightness of my screen. So mean, yet reassuring of the fact that there might be an escape, into a world of greater nothings nestled in between similar scenes of sorrow and ease.
Al-Akhbar
The Toronto International Film Festival recently awarded itself the prize for, "most recent addition to the Israeli propaganda machine."
A spotlight on Tel Aviv, funded by the Israeli Ministry of Foreign affairs, found its way through my act as a journalist, and emerged as an article on Al Jazeera's Website. Dismantling the oppressive monolithic discourse of Zionism is one of the few ways of redemption for what otherwise could be a silly self serving profession.
In other cinematic news, the Doha Tribeca Film Festival sets to unveil itself in a few weeks. A press pass, and a microphone, should be sufficient to broadcast boatfuls of contradictions into your years. My gratitude to Pacifica Radio and Nora is limitless.
However, the next story I am tempted to chase is an examination of the marriage between petrodollars and football, from Manaseer to Manchester.
More
These pages are incomplete impressions, unable to fully capture the beauty of my daily collisions with inspiration. Everyday, I am uplifted and humbled by the resilience of migrant workers, muted mouths, creative queens, and heavenly hearts.
The only way to thank these titans is to write more.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Out of place.
From Mississauga,
There are not enough colors bursting through the large window panes of the apartment to describe the ways in which I detest this city.
Built on stolen land, and governed by thieves, Canada's fifth largest city is no more than a showcase for settler colonialism and international dominance.
It is a land that gave me refuge from the destruction of Iraq, and offered me, through anemic government programs, the support that I needed to build my life. However, even such a remarkable transaction of dignity for dollars fails to capture the enormity of our losses, before we came here.
Refugees turned settlers, we are slowly cookie-cut, under the constance of humming, mind numbing, lamps. We watch our homes destroyed on greasy television sets. We eat our minds away in empty parking lots, sparking shots in the dark. Here, we are truly nothing.
There is a mall in this city. In fact, it is larger than the city itself. Neon lights from its operations are powerful enough to ensure a steady dose of much needed sunlight, and secure a healthy attendance at all festivities. Throughout the day, hundreds of thousands of people crawl through the marble castle, picking up prepackaged parts of their identity along the way.
There is little public space here. Plazas, or strip malls, and strip clubs, compete with fast food chains for any land left over by real estate developers. From this condominium to the next, opulent opportunists work constantly to live happily and neglect to wipe the blood off the streets. Instead of renewal and reparations, there are immigration offices and police stations.
Over policed, and under my foot, the City of Mississauga, my home for the last seventeen years, is a violent and grotesque product of our greed and racism. As such, it will never be my home.
Thirty and almost awake, Ahmed.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Letters.
Dear Mama,
There is little space left on the walls. I used the last empty patch, situated squarely under the circular window, to create a stained impression of capitalism by spitting coffee over my hand. The result was a beautifully stenciled masterpiece, inspired by pre-historic art and destined for the wastelands of modernity.
Yesterday, I celebrated the end of four months, out of a seven year sentence I was handed for a crime that I did, in fact, commit. As part of the festivities, I consumed the majority of the walls of my cell in a creative feast that unleashed my most brilliant manifestation to date, a self portrait of sorts, where my eyes were neatly shaped out from the four words that have guided my life: resist, roots, ambition, and other. I was able to carefully tie in the quartet with a carefully drawn out star, placed beautifully in the middle.
I learned how to draw perfectly pointed pentagrams, only days before my arrest, on a train ride from Cairo to Baghdad, long before there was a continuous railroad connecting the two cultural giants. My sister, out of boredom and disgust at the scenes of destruction decorating our window, spent the vast majority of the voyage guiding my hand against the ceiling, carving out star after star.
An eye on each wall. I wish you could see them. Your creations recreated for much more than recreation. I am grateful for the red chalk that you managed to smuggle in during your last visit, without them, I would need to use my blood. What a monstrosity that would have been, beautifully bold blue against the pale weak aspirations of the off white walls.
I dream of seeing you in Iraq, dignified, strong, and at peace. Until then, kisses on your feet bring greetings of solidarity and respect.
Love, your son.
There is little space left on the walls. I used the last empty patch, situated squarely under the circular window, to create a stained impression of capitalism by spitting coffee over my hand. The result was a beautifully stenciled masterpiece, inspired by pre-historic art and destined for the wastelands of modernity.
Yesterday, I celebrated the end of four months, out of a seven year sentence I was handed for a crime that I did, in fact, commit. As part of the festivities, I consumed the majority of the walls of my cell in a creative feast that unleashed my most brilliant manifestation to date, a self portrait of sorts, where my eyes were neatly shaped out from the four words that have guided my life: resist, roots, ambition, and other. I was able to carefully tie in the quartet with a carefully drawn out star, placed beautifully in the middle.
I learned how to draw perfectly pointed pentagrams, only days before my arrest, on a train ride from Cairo to Baghdad, long before there was a continuous railroad connecting the two cultural giants. My sister, out of boredom and disgust at the scenes of destruction decorating our window, spent the vast majority of the voyage guiding my hand against the ceiling, carving out star after star.
An eye on each wall. I wish you could see them. Your creations recreated for much more than recreation. I am grateful for the red chalk that you managed to smuggle in during your last visit, without them, I would need to use my blood. What a monstrosity that would have been, beautifully bold blue against the pale weak aspirations of the off white walls.
I dream of seeing you in Iraq, dignified, strong, and at peace. Until then, kisses on your feet bring greetings of solidarity and respect.
Love, your son.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Read all about it.
Here are three articles that I wrote prior to the Confederations Cup. More to come after the competition. Go Iraq! Go Egypt! Go South Africa!
Football Elite clash at the Confederations Cup
http://alternavox.net/category/bulletinbox/
Iraqi football team brings hope in troubled times
http://www.thedailynewsegypt.com/article.aspx?ArticleID=22365
Iraqis dream of football miracles
http://english.aljazeera.net/sport/2009/05/200951710154530848.html
Football Elite clash at the Confederations Cup
http://alternavox.net/category/bulletinbox/
Iraqi football team brings hope in troubled times
http://www.thedailynewsegypt.com/article.aspx?ArticleID=22365
Iraqis dream of football miracles
http://english.aljazeera.net/sport/2009/05/200951710154530848.html
Thursday, June 4, 2009
From Al Iraq to Masr, with love.
To the people of Egypt,
Congratulations to President Mubarak on the recent visit of American leader Barack Obama, it is the highest aspiration of any Arab dictator to be visited by the American emperor of the hour. We look forward to the day where you can relive your great revolutionary legacy and overthrow the despotic regime ravaging the might of Egypt, and Egyptians.
In Iraq, we were particularly impressed with the fact that Obama had announced his visit, and, as a result, enjoyed great fanfare accentuated by the well known hospitality of Egyptians, an ideal we all hold up with pride. When Obama came to visit us in Iraq a few months ago, he did so secretly, choosing to court the American military presence in our country that has been killing, raping, crippling, and maiming our men and women for over six years. He shook hands enthusiastically with Marines and Rangers, and whatever Spartan label that military maggots carry with them these days, and completely disregarded the millions of lives destroyed by their actions.
We were mostly disappointed that we couldn't show the new president around. In the Kadhimiya Hospital, in the northern end of Baghdad, cancer patients withering away from depleted uranium crowning the tip of American munitions, couldn't wait to kiss Obama's feet before they left this god forsaken world.
Students at decrepit schools throughout Iraq, part of an education system sold out to the World Bank, were planning to anxiously await the arrival of the new emperor and beg and plea for chalk, pencils, desks, and dignity.
Widows and internally displaced refugees had a really cute event planned for Obama, and Ms. Clinton. They had organized a mass burn-in for the new eloquent Commander in Chief. Overpriced and scarce gasoline was going to be used to set millions of bodies alight in homage to the new emperor. The theme of the soiree was, "With nothing left, why bother to live?"
Thousands of different sectors from our destroyed society were waiting in anticipation for the Barack Show. From persons disabled by war to millions of youth scouring the streets for crumbs, we had some pretty nifty ideas that we couldn't wait to put into action. One of my personal favorites was the planned "Thank you for Democracy" festival. Millions of Iraqis were planning to line the streets of Baghdad, with empty bags in hand, and ask Barack to bless them with the vomit of himself, and his entourage.
Unfortunately, he wasn't able to walk in the streets of Baghdad. Maybe he was concerned about the security situation, although he always seems to suggest that things in Iraq are heading in the right direction. Maybe he was afraid of seeing the horrific effects of American war and embargo, bursting his bubble of foreign policy and the War on Terror. Or maybe, he just doesn't like Arabs, Kurds, Iraqis, Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike.
So, he went to Egypt instead. We are sorry for the inconvenience this might have caused Cairo Commuters, and the frenzy this might have unleashed in your muffled media. But we are assured that brave souls, progressive fighters, and the poor, whom we share the most with, were not taken for the ride that Obama had wished he could drag them on.
His speech, we are certain, fell on millions and millions of deaf ears. His overtures to Islam, and his gestures to Peace, were met with rolling eyes and shaking fists. While the American President spoke, Israeli fighter jets taunted Palestinians living under Apartheid, and American artillery killed even more Afghans and Iraqis.
We are two peoples bound by our struggle and dignity. From Baghdad to Cairo, from Mosul to Alexandria, and from Basra to Aswan, we send our greetings of solidarity and respect. And, more importantly, we look forward to a day when we can regain, through resistance, our dignity and freedom.
Yours truly,
An Iraqi Refugee
Congratulations to President Mubarak on the recent visit of American leader Barack Obama, it is the highest aspiration of any Arab dictator to be visited by the American emperor of the hour. We look forward to the day where you can relive your great revolutionary legacy and overthrow the despotic regime ravaging the might of Egypt, and Egyptians.
In Iraq, we were particularly impressed with the fact that Obama had announced his visit, and, as a result, enjoyed great fanfare accentuated by the well known hospitality of Egyptians, an ideal we all hold up with pride. When Obama came to visit us in Iraq a few months ago, he did so secretly, choosing to court the American military presence in our country that has been killing, raping, crippling, and maiming our men and women for over six years. He shook hands enthusiastically with Marines and Rangers, and whatever Spartan label that military maggots carry with them these days, and completely disregarded the millions of lives destroyed by their actions.
We were mostly disappointed that we couldn't show the new president around. In the Kadhimiya Hospital, in the northern end of Baghdad, cancer patients withering away from depleted uranium crowning the tip of American munitions, couldn't wait to kiss Obama's feet before they left this god forsaken world.
Students at decrepit schools throughout Iraq, part of an education system sold out to the World Bank, were planning to anxiously await the arrival of the new emperor and beg and plea for chalk, pencils, desks, and dignity.
Widows and internally displaced refugees had a really cute event planned for Obama, and Ms. Clinton. They had organized a mass burn-in for the new eloquent Commander in Chief. Overpriced and scarce gasoline was going to be used to set millions of bodies alight in homage to the new emperor. The theme of the soiree was, "With nothing left, why bother to live?"
Thousands of different sectors from our destroyed society were waiting in anticipation for the Barack Show. From persons disabled by war to millions of youth scouring the streets for crumbs, we had some pretty nifty ideas that we couldn't wait to put into action. One of my personal favorites was the planned "Thank you for Democracy" festival. Millions of Iraqis were planning to line the streets of Baghdad, with empty bags in hand, and ask Barack to bless them with the vomit of himself, and his entourage.
Unfortunately, he wasn't able to walk in the streets of Baghdad. Maybe he was concerned about the security situation, although he always seems to suggest that things in Iraq are heading in the right direction. Maybe he was afraid of seeing the horrific effects of American war and embargo, bursting his bubble of foreign policy and the War on Terror. Or maybe, he just doesn't like Arabs, Kurds, Iraqis, Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike.
So, he went to Egypt instead. We are sorry for the inconvenience this might have caused Cairo Commuters, and the frenzy this might have unleashed in your muffled media. But we are assured that brave souls, progressive fighters, and the poor, whom we share the most with, were not taken for the ride that Obama had wished he could drag them on.
His speech, we are certain, fell on millions and millions of deaf ears. His overtures to Islam, and his gestures to Peace, were met with rolling eyes and shaking fists. While the American President spoke, Israeli fighter jets taunted Palestinians living under Apartheid, and American artillery killed even more Afghans and Iraqis.
We are two peoples bound by our struggle and dignity. From Baghdad to Cairo, from Mosul to Alexandria, and from Basra to Aswan, we send our greetings of solidarity and respect. And, more importantly, we look forward to a day when we can regain, through resistance, our dignity and freedom.
Yours truly,
An Iraqi Refugee
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Sound Check
Another appearance on Flashpoints, KPFA Radio, in Berkeley, California. Nora Barrows Friedman and I talk about the Death of Iraq, Obama & Oil, and the Beautiful Game. Check it out and send feedback please.
http://kpfa.org/archive/id/51336
In other news...
Obama's trip to Saudi Arabia then Egypt will only entice oppressive neo-liberal elements within our society to take more and burn more.
What the fuck is the "Paris of the Middle East?" You ignorant self orientalizing elitist colonized superficial idiot. And then I kicked him.
I'd rather weep on the outside than cry on the inside. That way I can taste my tears, take a hold of my fears and kiss them to death.
Let's twitter. Now.
http://kpfa.org/archive/id/51336
In other news...
Obama's trip to Saudi Arabia then Egypt will only entice oppressive neo-liberal elements within our society to take more and burn more.
What the fuck is the "Paris of the Middle East?" You ignorant self orientalizing elitist colonized superficial idiot. And then I kicked him.
I'd rather weep on the outside than cry on the inside. That way I can taste my tears, take a hold of my fears and kiss them to death.
Let's twitter. Now.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Articles.
Here are some of my online articles, I am still trying to find out how to publish articles from print.
Iraqis dream of football miracles
http://english.aljazeera.net/sport/2009/05/200951710154530848.html
Most Iraqi provinces 'safe'
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2009/03/200932372956625539.html
Pinning hopes on the Iraqi army
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2009/03/2009319224518127627.html
Iraq's legacy of UN sanctions
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/humanrightsun/2008/12/200812925523909223.html
Canada's Arab immigrant vote
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2008/10/20081013112940123612.html
Palestinian rhythms of resistance
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2008/11/20081167455110341.html
Iraqi football fans shoot for unity
http://english.aljazeera.net/sport/2008/06/200861505447869419.html
The Iraq Football Fiasco
http://www.zmag.org/znet/viewArticle/17815
Activist: Iraqi youth must rebuild
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/iraqivoices/2008/03/200852518412952336.html
Bibi Guns
http://alternavox.net/bulletinbox/bibi-guns/
Iraqis dream of football miracles
http://english.aljazeera.net/sport/2009/05/200951710154530848.html
Most Iraqi provinces 'safe'
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2009/03/200932372956625539.html
Pinning hopes on the Iraqi army
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2009/03/2009319224518127627.html
Iraq's legacy of UN sanctions
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/humanrightsun/2008/12/200812925523909223.html
Canada's Arab immigrant vote
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2008/10/20081013112940123612.html
Palestinian rhythms of resistance
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/2008/11/20081167455110341.html
Iraqi football fans shoot for unity
http://english.aljazeera.net/sport/2008/06/200861505447869419.html
The Iraq Football Fiasco
http://www.zmag.org/znet/viewArticle/17815
Activist: Iraqi youth must rebuild
http://english.aljazeera.net/focus/iraqivoices/2008/03/200852518412952336.html
Bibi Guns
http://alternavox.net/bulletinbox/bibi-guns/
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Last Night
Last night, the European football season reached its media driven climax, with a beautiful display of total tactical domination by Barcelona FC who went on to win the 2009 Champions League by beating Manchester United FC with two goals coming at each end of an hour of play. Of significance here wasn't the pair of points unleashed by Samuel Eto and Lionel Messi, but of the social dynamics intertwined into the field of play, and weaved into the uniforms of the players themselves. Like most things that happen in the West, Arab youth are impacted in ways where decisions in their own back yards fail to achieve. From discussions digging up the death of millions of Young Arabs to the fabrication of falsely fabulous fads feeding the minds of millions of Arab youth, what happens in Europe has always impacted this part of the World, mostly in ways wrapped up in the caskets catered by colonialism. In modern football, the relationship between Europa and the Arab world, or the rest of the Global south for that matter, hasn't really moved far beyond the realm of exploitation and culture colonialism. Young players are ripped out of poorer countries, or picked up from the streets of ghettoized neighborhoods in France or Germany, and made to masquerade around madly for millions of meaningless dollars. In last night's game, another dynamic was at play, that of fan allegiance eminating from the streets of Arabland. Most affluent, elite, Iraqi youth adorned their Man U jerseys in support of a team stemming from the heart of the English industry-side, manufactured and packaged perfectly for consumption by masses of income wielding yuppies. Barca, on the other hand is the only major European outfit refusing to carry corporate sponsorhip on its jersey, and is situated in the heart of Catalonia, an autonomous region in Spain once located within the great expanses of Al-Andalus. During the War on Iraq, Barca supporters yielded anti-war slogans and waved Iraqi flags around as if they were their own. In the latest Israeli massacre of Gaza, Barcelona's basketball supporters invaded the court to disrupt a game against an Israeli club, seeing no fair play in Apartheid. However, at the end of the day, Barcelona's popularity, in the Arab world in particular, could be perpetuated by the many of the same dynamics driving desire for Manchester United: consumerism, mass media, and a yearning to identify with the all-powerful. After Barcelona's win, hundreds of youth rioted in the heart of the city, showering police with bottles and petrol bombs. Now that's something to cheer for.
Last night, I performed for the first time in the Arab world. I managed to wedge myself into a lineup of graphic and visual artists sharing their work through a series of slides. My spoken word, empowered by the fires lighting the skies of Iraq and Palestine, set a beautiful contrast to the two dimensional diatribe dictating the terms of the night. My father saw me perform for the first time. He was the first one there. Followed by mother and sister. That meant the world to me. "Who knew that the way I greets you can defeats the way you want to harm me twice already bush attacked me with a warning and yet none of us were swarming none of us left despite the theft of our existence you took soccer on the streets and turned it into christmas at the mall man you got balls making kids dream of buildings that are tall never telling them how hard they'll fall if they don't stand quietly against the wall. Who knew that the sky can turn pink and the sun can sink into the earth where things of the greatest worth give birth to every verse that I disperse and find my self inside it immersed. who knew that the soul I left in Baghdad I would search for in zig zags and bodybags would be a gift to my people, their souls are not so feeble and with every evil achiever there is born a believer who through words can conceive-a viva Iraq!!! But now that the birds are back i think i saw a dove with the whole pain of the world on its back. Who knew that by placing verbs into sentences we can disturb the sentences which we are forced to serve I must flatten the curve and swerve because I don’t deserve to live off what those choose to give from this earth and that is how a man can give birth."
Last night, I wrote and recorded news bulletins for Qatar Foundation Radio, whom I'm doing some freelance work for. I waited till the midnight hour passed, to wait and absorb, edit, and regurgurate the news of the day. When I arrived, however, the work I produced never made out of my bosses' inbox. Criticisms of QF remain muted, but not for long. In the meantime, find them on the net.
Last night, I called Saron and she never picked up. Each empty ring piercing through my existence. I miss her desperately, and can't wait to celebrate summer with her magic.
Last night, one night, of many nights gone by.
Last night, I performed for the first time in the Arab world. I managed to wedge myself into a lineup of graphic and visual artists sharing their work through a series of slides. My spoken word, empowered by the fires lighting the skies of Iraq and Palestine, set a beautiful contrast to the two dimensional diatribe dictating the terms of the night. My father saw me perform for the first time. He was the first one there. Followed by mother and sister. That meant the world to me. "Who knew that the way I greets you can defeats the way you want to harm me twice already bush attacked me with a warning and yet none of us were swarming none of us left despite the theft of our existence you took soccer on the streets and turned it into christmas at the mall man you got balls making kids dream of buildings that are tall never telling them how hard they'll fall if they don't stand quietly against the wall. Who knew that the sky can turn pink and the sun can sink into the earth where things of the greatest worth give birth to every verse that I disperse and find my self inside it immersed. who knew that the soul I left in Baghdad I would search for in zig zags and bodybags would be a gift to my people, their souls are not so feeble and with every evil achiever there is born a believer who through words can conceive-a viva Iraq!!! But now that the birds are back i think i saw a dove with the whole pain of the world on its back. Who knew that by placing verbs into sentences we can disturb the sentences which we are forced to serve I must flatten the curve and swerve because I don’t deserve to live off what those choose to give from this earth and that is how a man can give birth."
Last night, I wrote and recorded news bulletins for Qatar Foundation Radio, whom I'm doing some freelance work for. I waited till the midnight hour passed, to wait and absorb, edit, and regurgurate the news of the day. When I arrived, however, the work I produced never made out of my bosses' inbox. Criticisms of QF remain muted, but not for long. In the meantime, find them on the net.
Last night, I called Saron and she never picked up. Each empty ring piercing through my existence. I miss her desperately, and can't wait to celebrate summer with her magic.
Last night, one night, of many nights gone by.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
From Doha, with love.
How much farther can we stay apart? I started falling apart from the start. Heart to heart missing from the way my days play with my mind. Falling behind, I start to grind what's inside to find a piece of what's gone. Lonely nights like gun fights with lights in the sky, who's ready to die, when so much of life is just a pie in the sky.
The air conditioning is playing foolish games with my senses, the cold it dispenses is relentless, selfless, and wishes wellness, but renders me helpless in the face of my minutes, moments, and hours. Here, he who devours sweets and sours will gain all the powers that he needs, how much more greed can we breed, when our minds are not even freed.
There have been little developments with me, beyond rises in the levels of mercury, when will the sea come and take this boy away, one day, I say, one day.
The air conditioning is playing foolish games with my senses, the cold it dispenses is relentless, selfless, and wishes wellness, but renders me helpless in the face of my minutes, moments, and hours. Here, he who devours sweets and sours will gain all the powers that he needs, how much more greed can we breed, when our minds are not even freed.
There have been little developments with me, beyond rises in the levels of mercury, when will the sea come and take this boy away, one day, I say, one day.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Can you hear me?
"Video killed the radio star." - The Buggles, 1979.
Here's a radio interview with me on Iraq for KPFA Pacifica Radio in San Francisco. I'm in there somewhere, like blood on a rich man's hand, or not. Please listen and send feedback.
http://kpfa.org/archive/id/50603
If there's poetry on the mind, then there's poetry on the grind, the kind that makes my mind bind itself into a book, and hang from a hook for you to see, where will I be, when the sun comes down to kiss me on my knee, maybe stuck at sea, on a sinking ship, shot in the hip, pierced from the lip, losing my life to the steady drip of blood flooding the ocean, coloring it red, so cut off my head, and let me fly instead, because deep in my heart, I'm already dead.
Lost between connections, Ahme,d!
Here's a radio interview with me on Iraq for KPFA Pacifica Radio in San Francisco. I'm in there somewhere, like blood on a rich man's hand, or not. Please listen and send feedback.
http://kpfa.org/archive/id/50603
If there's poetry on the mind, then there's poetry on the grind, the kind that makes my mind bind itself into a book, and hang from a hook for you to see, where will I be, when the sun comes down to kiss me on my knee, maybe stuck at sea, on a sinking ship, shot in the hip, pierced from the lip, losing my life to the steady drip of blood flooding the ocean, coloring it red, so cut off my head, and let me fly instead, because deep in my heart, I'm already dead.
Lost between connections, Ahme,d!
Sunday, April 26, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, April 18, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)