Amman, Libya, and the Arabian Sea.

I visited Amman for the first time in 1992, on my way out of the Gulf, destination unknown. That year, my family had packed as much of their lives as possible into a dozen tired suitcases and said goodbye to Abu Dhabi, their home away from home for the better part of a decade. Operation Desert Storm ushered in a new era of American imperialism for the region, and a new lifetime of exile for Iraqis like me. From the outside, Amman looked confused, tired, and beat down, a lot like the scores of Iraqi and Palestinian refugees that make up most of its population. Tribalism, monarchy, and its proximity to Israel and Iraq have never given the city a chance to develop its own irrelevant and narcissistic identity, like most cities around the world strive to do. In fact, Amman, as capital city of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, despite its sparse offerings, has played a very critical role in supporting an important and international project: the colonization of the Arab world. Their list of achievements in this area is surprisingly quite extensive: peace treaties and economic agreements with Apartheid Israel, denial of citizenship rights to Palestinians, support of Iraqi dictatorship and then American occupation, and of course the subjugation of the rights of its own citizens are just some of its contributions. Therefore, recent news that Amman would become another city enclosed by the protectorate of the Gulf Cooperation Council, comes as no surprise at all.

During our stay in Amman, my father ventured out to Libya, by taking a boat from Malta, and visited oil companies operating in Tripoli, in the hopes of finding employment. He was one of tens of thousands of Iraqis that had been to the North African state to find economic sustenance for their families. His trip was not fruitful, and in many ways, I am thankful for that. As many of us know, Libya is currently undergoing a painful and mandatory imperialist exercise: the undermining of efforts by grassroots revolutionary movements in favor of maintaining steady oil supplies to the West. As an Iraqi, I know a thing or two about that. A recent visit by American senator and war monger John McCain to so-called revolutionaries in Libya allowed Gaddafi’s dictatorship to breathe a huge sigh of relief. The cooption of the Libyan revolution by America was a step in ensuring that no revolutionary movements would entertain the thought of disrupting, or more audaciously, controlling, the export of the country’s natural resources. And as gatekeeper for Libya’s oil for many decades, Gaddafi’s henchmen knew that their presence would be maintained, even for a little longer, as long as oil ran beneath their feet and NATO jet fighters hovered above their sky.

From the Atlantic Ocean to the Arabian Sea, American intelligence units and diplomatic missions are struggling to contain continued defiance by Arabs against imperialism, and their locally hired goons. Because, beneath the fake smiles of Obama and Sarkozy, Pennsylvania Avenue and Paris both know that Arab dictators will not be the only beasts scouring for shelter from the relentless rains of blossoming dreams this summer. Pieces from shattering statues in Tunis and Cairo will be felt a million miles beyond our liberation squares. They will find their way back to the glass mansions that built them. For decades, so called Western Democracies forced millions of workers, farmers, and students in the Arab world to live under the merciless boots of their merciless regimes. So when news broke of Osama Bin Laden’s death and his burial at sea, America positioned itself to make a shift from the War on Terror, to a return of more tried and tested colonial tactics: containing our struggles to be free.

A spoken word piece never to be spoken.

Written on the eighth anniversary of the American occupation of Iraq, to the sounds of Naseer Shamma, and the memories of a lifetime gone by.

Our anniversaries pass us by more quickly every year.

The destruction of a people broadcast in Technicolor for consumption by shattered eyes and wasteful minds. Scripted lines of hypocrisies and lies carve their trickery into my brother’s chest. The era of democracy by theft has its foot firmly rooted in the back of my mother’s neck. Those ballot boxes are bleeding to death, with every breath fighting against the diagnosis of silence. Violence in the contaminated breasts, rotten vegetables, polluted nests, and disfigured skies of Baghdad knows no rest. Delivered from the West, fighter jets drop fishing nets filled with hate and disrespect. A people broken into sects brings joy to the appetite of uninvited guests. The fate of hungry children scribbled on a contract bringing wealth to a Wall Street desk with no test or tribulation. How many more years of occupation? Rivers of tears and sweat flood our cities with devastation, while money flows back into the pockets of those who ordered my father’s assassination. This is Iraq. A country laid out flatly on its back by rolling tanks and decades of suffocation.

Our anniversaries pass by us more quickly every year.

Refugees sell their dignity at the nearest gas station. Girls sold on the streets of neighboring nations. Death by penetration for an entire generation. Patience is the religion for those who sleep under clouds of eternal frustration. Lost in the equation of oil, blood, and colonization. In search of government issued identification to stop their creation from turning into broken bones and dust. Their skin color is rust. Everything they eat brings disgust to mouths filled with distrust for every drop of rain and wind gust. The sun refuses to share its light on a nation whose exodus was shoved through the windows of the nearest bus. Out of Iraq. A country under attack. The lack of choices. The only voices we hear whisper that our anniversaries pass by us more quickly every year.

And that is my greatest fear.

The Gulf Cup: Much More than Football

For the Iraqi men's national football team, the road to Aden has been long. After landing in Manama around 7am on a short flight from nearby Dubai, the Iraqi team spend the better half of the day sleeping on the floors of the Bahraini airport, in between chairs, hiding in the prayer room, exhausted, trying to escape the aggressive attitude of air-conditioning and indifference in the Gulf. The Asian champions were waiting to board a connecting to flight to Yemen, where teams from the Gulf are gathering to contest the 20th edition of the Gulf Cup, due to start tomorrow.

The experiences of these Iraqi passport holders traveling at the expense of their corrupt government are in stark contrast to those of their richer counterparts who arrived in the Yemeni capital on chartered flights that flew nonstop from their respective capitals. If the Iraqi government can't organize a direct flight from Dubai to Yemen for a few dozen of the most important people in the country, then Iraqis have a better chance of seeing snow in July than witnessing any improvements on the ground.

Nonetheless, these kinds of trials and tribulations are no stranger to athletes from Iraq. A history of dehumanization at the hands of the own government, whether it was corporal punishment under a maniacal Uday Saddam Hussein, or utter disregard complements of a stubborn and incompetent Hussain Saeed, both of whom have had their ways with misgoverning the beautiful game in Iraq, the country's performance has been nothing short of miraculous.

Only months after the horrors of American occupation, the Iraqi Olympic team took the 2004 Athens games by storm by reaching the bronze medal match only to lose narrowly to a star studded Italian side. This set the Iraqi football machine in motion and drove it to arguably its highest achievement yet: winning the Asian Cup of Nations in 2007.

Since then, however, the Lions of Mesopotamia, as they are commonly known on the streets of Iraq, have had their share of setbacks. An early exit in World Cup qualifications and a string of bad showings at the Gulf Cup have embodied the demise of the game in a country obsessed with everything that is football. This fall from glory has also been accentuated by an anemic domestic league where games are played on rotten pitches to the tunes of fan violence.

As Iraq endeavors to win its fourth Gulf Cup over the next two weeks, the fact that the tournament is being held in Yemen must be somewhat of a relief to a soccer team struggling to hold itself together. In many ways, Aden is very similar to Baghdad. In addition to both cities enjoying a rich history, the two capitals are similar in terms of their political instability. Although matters in Iraq can not be compared to the relative stability in Yemen, the Gulf Cup has been met with protest, violence, and a massive security crackdown.

The hosts are desperate to promote a facade of unity between the North and South of the country which came together in a manufactured merger in 1990 after a tumultuous history of struggle between communist and nationalist elements. Since their unification, a brief civil war in 1994 and a growing movement of discontent from the South have left the country on the brink of complete collapse.

In the weeks leading up to the tournament, rocket propelled grenades have visited the May 22 stadium in Aden twice while thousands of protesters have battled police officers in opposition to any public relations benefits that the Gulf Cup might bring to the governments off the backs of the oppressed. The Yemeni government is also obsessed with proving itself to its richer colleagues in the Gulf and thus taking a concrete step towards greater regional integration.

The security of southern Yemen tells only part of the political saga unfolding ahead of the Gulf Cup. To the north, separatist Houthis have once again flared up their demands by battling with Yemeni and Saudi security forces in what has been an ongoing conflict with regional and international consequences.

Despite a colossal security presence, several players have refused to join their squads, and the sensationalist Arabic media continues to cast its doubts over the safety of the tournament. In many ways, the concerns are legitimate, but ultimately, talk of security or a lack thereof usually stems from a problematic discourse surrounding a country's placement within the American plan for the Middle East. In the diseased spirit of anti-Black racism in the lead up to the World Cup in South Africa, anti-Yemeni stereotyping is also never far from the fear mongering campaign being waged against the tournament being staged in Aden.

This is not in defense of the Yemeni government which has reportedly spent $600 million of the public's money on stadiums and hotels at a time when the population are suffering from chronic failures in health care, education, and all aspects of the country's infrastructure. This is also the same government that is emerging as a new base for America's war on terror.

Nonetheless, Yemenis have historically been regarded as second class citizens in the Gulf. This is particularly true in Saudi Arabia, where tens of thousands of Yemenis live and work for considerably less pay than their affluent employers. In that sense, Yemenis are desperate to reverse a sense of lost dignity through a positive showing from their football team. Therefore, the opening match scheduled between Saudi Arabia and Yemen seems to be the ideal way to set the tournament on fire, figuratively speaking of course.

For the other countries participating in the regional tournament, unrecognized by FIFA, a win in the Gulf Cup is a much needed boost for Football Associations failing to impress their local audiences, even in instances where millions of dollars are spent on soccer. For Oman, the defending champions, a growing generation of gifted players wants to continue a recently found tradition of winning by successful defending their title. In Kuwait, a renaissance of might on the pitch is set to revive historic dominance of the tournament. For the Emaratis, a sleepy decade and a half has passed since the magic of the country's golden generation, and fans will surely look to this tournament to see some light at the end of the tunnel. Bahraini disappointment in the final stages of World Cup qualifications for the last eight years seems to still cast its powerful shadow over a gifted bunch, and a tough tournament is waiting for the island team. Finally, Qatar, with an army of naturalized foreigners, is still unable to find that elusive moment on the pitch to gain some momentum for a country vying to host the World Cup in 2022.

Despite the incentives dangled in front of all the participating teams, there is no greater joy than that which is in store for Iraq if they lift the trophy, coincidentally designed by an Iraqi artist as well. The Iraqi team must overcome tremendous obstacles on and off the pitch to come near any sense of accomplishment in Yemen. However, with the presence of a new German coach, Wolfgang Sidka, who led SV Werder Bremen to victory in the UEFA Intertoto Cup in 1998, and a collection of young hungry players battling for a spot in the squad ahead of the Asian Cup in January 2011 could prove the necessary boost to claim victory.

Younis Mahmoud, the Iraqi captain who has been continuously accused of underachieving against Gulf teams who offer the striker tremendous earning potential, recently told a gathering of Iraqis in Doha that Iraq will indeed win the Gulf Cup.

As Iraqi fans across the world hold their breath in anticipation to see if Mahmoud's words come true, the tournament in Yemen brings with it a slew of added elements that will undoubtedly mean that the real story of the Gulf Cup will be determined off the pitch. This is a trend that is going nowhere anytime soon as the next tournament is set to take place in none other than occupied Iraq itself.

A brief history of Iraqi Football:

1948: Iraqi Football Association established.
1951: Dhia Habib takes charge as first full time coach.
1957: Iraq's first international match played against Morocco in Lebanon, drawing 3-3
1964: Win the first of four consecutive Arab Nations Cups.
1966: Opening of Shaab Stadium in Baghdad against Eusebio's Portugal.
1986: First and only appearance in the World Cup in Mexico, losing 1-0 to Paraguay, 2-1 to Belgium and 1-0 to Mexico.
1991: Iraq banned from the Gulf Cup and Asian Games for more than a decade after the Gulf War.
2004: Storm to fourth place in the Athens Olympics, beating Portugal 4-2, Costa Rica 2-0 and Australia 1-0, before losing 1-0 to Italy in the bronze match.
2007: Jorvan Vieira leads Iraq to first Asian Cup, beating Saudia Arabia 1-0 in the final.
2008: Fail to qualify for 2010 World Cup.

Victims to the Vote

"It has been almost a million months since Iraqis ran to the polls, to fill holes in their souls with bloodstained ballots. Hundreds of candidates dressed up as maggots coloured the liberal lining in occupied skies, and perpetuated the lies that there is democracy. Hypocrisy of the highest order, politicians blaming their failure on porous borders, while blindly following American orders on everything from defence to education. The death of a nation, systematic assassination, and relentless dehumanization of millions of people. The burning of mosques, schools, hospitals and steeples for crumbs of rotten bread. Iraq is dead, shot in the heart and stabbed in the head." ~ Unfinished Letters from Iraq, broken part of a new spoken word piece.

Prior to the vote on March 7th of this year, all the major political factions running in the nationwide elections declared the entire affair to be corrupt and not representative of the people's will. They were preemptively cooking an excuse for any unwanted results that might emerge out of the charade. Independent reports corroborated their suggestions with testimonies of fake registration forms and leaky ballot boxes. However, the elections went through, and the results were applauded by other fake democracies around the world. Since then a constipated coalition building process has left Iraq with no government for more than eight months.

In spite of the satirical sadness of it all, the liberal media, and Iraq's desperate population continue to hold on to the electoral proceedings with religious fervour. From outside Iraq, those who politically organized the occupation see the elections as justification for their complicity in mass murder; while those inside the country try to cope with the immense loss of life by pinning their misguided hopes on the empty promises of one politician or the other.

The inaccuracy of the results and the subsequent drama only tell part of the story. An elections process cleverly diverts all attention from the colossal incompetency of the government, and spins the tall tale of a young fledgling born again country instead. The reality is that democracy in Iraq does not exist beyond the show business of sham elections.

In the absence of food, electricity, water, education, health, safety and dignity, the vote exists merely as a tool to stretch the life expectancy of the occupation and ironically works to quell any grassroots movements that would build genuine democratic institutions in the country. Students, workers, community organizations, women, single mothers, the disabled, orphans, the poor, and all other marginalized sectors of society continue to watch democracy from a painful distance while bearing the brunt of its epic failures.

Some Background

The emergence of a sovereign, self sustained, secular, progressive, economically powerful country in the region was a worrisome possibility for an oil hungry United States, obsessed with growing Soviet expansionism at the time. As such, the last 40 years have witnessed a program of pillaging and exploitation that has eaten its way through some of the most fertile land in the world.

Under Saddam's Ba'ath party, civil society in Iraq was destroyed, personal freedoms exterminated, and the majority of the country's resources were wasted on a paranoid dictatorship and an American proxy war with Iran. Under the sanctions, Iraq's infrastructure was annihilated, millions of people were killed, and theft and corruption took a stronghold in the mismanagement of the country's affairs. Since the occupation, millions more have had their lives destroyed, the greatest systematic extortion of a country's resources successfully executed, and the language of sectarianism has choked the aspirations of many generations to come. Throughout this time, America also unleashed the most violent warfare in the history of mankind.

The elections are just another part of this death sentence issued to Iraq.

In 1963, the CIA backed coup that deposed the populist left leaning government of Brigadier General Abdul Karim Qassim, and eventually brought Saddam's Ba'ath party to power, seems to be only a day away. During the bloody hijack, lists of progressive activists were provided to Ba'athist henchmen by the USA to be murdered in campuses and other public spaces. One of the men touting a gun, terrorizing the University of Baghdad was none other than the esteemed Dr. Ayad Allawi himself, one of the main contestants in the recent Iraqi elections. He is the leader of the Iraqi National Movement (Al Iraqiya), the political party which won the greatest number of seats.

His rival, Nouri Al Maliki, is secretary general of the Islamic Da'wa (Preaching) Party which was established by a collection of clerics in the 1960s to build an Islamic state in Iraq. Although it was not secular like its Ba'athist counterpart, it also saw socialism as its main enemy. From its inception, Al Maliki's party enjoyed an incestuous relationship with the Islamic Revolution in Iran, and lived under its protection throughout the entirety of Saddam's regime. Both the party's history and sectarian outlook make it a perfect compliment to the complete destruction of Iraq, and thus has enjoyed great success in occupied Iraq. Currently, the Da'wa Party operates under the guise of the State of Law Coalition which received the second greatest number of seats in the 2010 elections.

Now and Beyond

Both parties are self avowed friends of America and employ a strategy of completely burning Iraq so they can rebuild it according to their own perverted US-endorsed visions of democracy. While Allawi prefers a nationalist leaning neo-liberal death for the country, Al Maliki prefers to bury Baghdad and other cities under the rubble of sectarian strife. In both cases, tyranny, corruption, and mass murder are required elements to complete the task. To that end, America is ecstatic, and is satisfied with playing a role of a divisive dictator from a distance.

From Al Maliki and Allawi, one can also get a sense of the entire Iraqi political spectrum that is killing its way to power. Different variations of religious fundamentalism, ultranationalism, hyperactive capitalism, and incompetency define democracy in the country. And despite their differences in delivery, the outcome is still the same: greater suffering for the people of Iraq. Al Sadr, Al Chalabi, Talibani, Al Dulaimi, Al Hakim, Al Alousi and Al Jaafari are just some of the crooks that have terrorized Iraq for the better part of the last decade.

The solution to Iraq's woes goes beyond its borders, stretching from the impoverished streets of Cairo, over the Apartheid wall in Palestine, and all the way to the coalition killing fields near Kabul. Without an internationalist and radical awakening in the fields and factories of Iraq, the people will continue to be victims to the vote. Without a concerted central effort to rebuild the country's infrastructure, Iraqis will continue to live in near apocalyptic conditions, waiting hopelessly for their imminent death. Without control of the country's resources, Iraq will operate infinitely as a one stop shop for vultures vying for easy profits.

One could argue that choosing a government is a necessary precursor for all these things to take place, but the mechanisms that govern Iraq are far away from the hands of the government. Elected officials are nothing more than glorified pimps that are holding down Iraq's head while it is being violated by dozens of dollar driven demons. In the absence of a progressive, radical, grassroots political program, the death of Iraq will continue to evolve from one election booth to the next.

Posters on a Wall.

I am infested with memories. They hang from my face like an oily unwashed beard. They refuse to speak. Instead, they dance to the muffled sounds of creaky tables overloaded with the weight of dying dreams.

Trying to arrange my recollections into neatly marked cubbyholes has never worked. There are no childhood memories that can be contained separately from the awkward recollections of adolescence. There is no separation between last year and the one before. Despite their natural state of interconnectedness, the incalculable size of experiences gives me the impression that I have lived thousands of distinctly separate lifetimes.

The earliest memories I have are of my older sister's room in Abu Dhabi, decorated with the excitement of an emerging pop culture in the Eighties that was shaping the mindsets of people around the world. Although later I would learn that many of these images and attached meanings would become an effective weapon in shifting power to societies obsessed with merciless capitalism, at the time, they were glossy windows into a world of colourful imagination and limitless beauty. Exiled, we carry hybrid, sometimes fragmented, identity cards around our necks.

Memories are carried in vessels, charting the seas of subconsciousness, occasionally stopping at islands of recollection, only to set sail again. Sometimes, they are forced ashore by powerful storms fueled by sudden shifts in destiny filled skies. These powerful boats which are entrusted with carrying the substance of lifetimes are the carriers of existence itself. Smell, taste, colour, sound, location, are just some of the ways in which they navigate themselves from one port to the other.

To this day, there are songs loaded with memory that break me into a thousand pieces like a windshield smashed by the impact of a drunk driver. The smell of homes cooked by the searing heat of a family's tales picks me up from my tired hair and drags me to a specific time and place where recollection rolls over me like an angry airplane tearing up the tarmac.

A refugee's suitcase is never big enough. Images that are too large to capture digitally, pixelated by a violent flash of the lights, are just too heavy to be lugged around. Instead, they are quietly buried along the way, near the scene of the crime, with the hopes that the oncoming flock of vultures would find them irrelevant to their endless appetite for death.

Sometimes, music can be stuffed into hungry pockets, and snuck across heartless borders. Once there, on the most foreign of days, the smallest of utterances will shift the ground beneath one's feet, bringing the heat of a playful street to replace the cold concrete. It is only from the memories of stolen lands and destroyed destinies that a radical consciousness will arise to bring back what can never be forever lost.

Although the memory shared in this story is of a little boy sitting on the carpeted floor of a poster plastered playground of a teenage girl; me and my older sister, it speaks to the strength of memories in building analytic tools to take hold of the world around us. The life my parents fought hard to give me emerges from a set of mostly comfortable memories to become a perfect study of how their escape from Iraq narrates the story of a destroyed people.

A journey through the mechanisms that form and kill memories doesn't have to be a painfully selfish and existential exercise where someone masturbates in a cesspool of their own personal plasma. It can be a celebration of the ability of memories to hold together communities, peoples, and their struggles.

From Abu Dhabi to Toronto to Doha, and forever Baghdad, the trail of memories left behind will always embody the ability of the mind to replace the fatal effects of exile with a journey towards justice.

I yearn for a day when I can sit on that same floor, and layout every single story, like a child with his or her favourite toys, and build a world that contains all of my memories into one coherent and durable structure. But when the most fundamental meanings of life change to the tune of fighting for survival, chronology and logic fizzle under the acidic feet of diaspora.

We are always buried with the fear that memories are not our own, but in fact are the sum of other people's lives. Ultimately, nobody owns the creative means to their own story, and in many ways, that is a good thing.

On Art, Hipsters, and Cultural Production.

"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.

Art from Love

Jenny's photography, our words, for your eyes.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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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.

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 :)

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.

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."

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.

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

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.

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.