Nostalgic with the temporal ..

Nostalgia hovers over the skies like a bad after taste, waiting to be washed down with memories of lullabies that tune out the harshness that leave your heart sunken cold. Our desire to feel connected to a community, the feeling of belonging leaves us uneasy and nauseous to permanencies of new territories. We hop on forth from place to place, attaching our selves in bubbles of laughters, warmth and even pain. We yearn for a connectedness in bodies with souls once met in lifetimes far away from here. Our yearning to be idealized in frames that portray our self-maintained and constructed Self, loses its very meaning in the illusions we hold when forcing on masks unlike what mirrors our inner beings.

Nostalgia tells us of another time when things were a little better, a little brighter, and a lot like home. But what is home if not engulfed in the heart, if not encapsulated in the moments that we share with one another. My problem with nostalgia is that it occupies our present moment, leaving us missing out on what is, because of what was. Nostalgia tells me that things tasted a little sweeter in times that occupied spaces before this one. Nostalgia reflects on memory dependent on a period so limited, the self is misled to realize that our time now is only temporal. Our infinite moments await what today writes for tomorrow. Yet, our infinite moments may suffer because of our inability to face up and walk against the norm ... or celebrate because a little sacrifice and devotional givings.

Our nostalgia should be for a time that stands tall in the finality of our existence. A longing for being. A need to be with the essence. A reminiscence in returning to Him.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un ( إِنَّا لِلّهِ وَإِنَّـا إِلَيْهِ رَاجِعونَ ) Quran, Sura Al-Baqara, Verse 156 

Social display ... social suicide..

Dear Social Media User (aka Twitter expert, aka FB Kings and Queens, aka Twitter drama ...)

Characters forms words of persona's
admired, humored, engaged,
politically enraged and even emotionally sustained
in ideals and forms
in boxes and letters
that brings forth
meanings of truth or illusion
of light and darkness
in faces of individuals
lived with
and never seen
in spaces
open
vast
and unlimited
for anyone
or some.

Who you are
arranged in syllables of
rhythmic notions
dressed in illusory fragments
of I am .. or my this... and all by myself(s)
for whom?

Social display of
fraternities of we follow you
and we shall follow you back
if only you are part of a herd
meant to entertain
and engage
the self
or others in return
of words
characters
symbols
fitted neatly in
formats limited (thankfully)
to expressions of
what sometimes
should be kept within.

These contemplations of intonations
are merely submissions
or rather defiance
to committing social
suicide
to the self
for what is unsaid
is sometimes greater than
what is already spilt.

And while there's no use crying
over spilt milk
grab the mop
and move along now...
the show is almost over
thanks for allowing
such static to fill through you.

P.S. Please filter your water ... twitter followers .. and your comments ...

Who are the Indigenous People today?

Picture: Thousands of people in Gaza protest their right towards attaining passports. The predicament of self-identity and it's co-relation with citizenship and attaining a passport continues ... (See: Passport for all in Gaza? http://english.aljazeera.net/indepth/opinion/2011/06/2011615112156348594.html )

Today on Twitter, people were flipping their profile pictures upside down to support those without citizenship. We live in a world today more intrinsic and complex than ever before. Our borders are tighter as border-security focuses on keeping those (without citizenship / or unwanted refugees, stateless, "other" persons) out of their lands. It was less than a century ago that borders, countries and citizenship to a bounded land was in existence. More than ever, those whom were lost in the idenity/citizenship scuffle were the indigenous peoples, comprising over 350 million individuals and 5000 ehno-linguistic groups in the world today.

Who exactly are indigenous peoples?

According to Jose A. Martinez Cobo, the Special Rapporteur appointed in 1971 by UNHCR to conduct a study of indigenous peoples, recognized their "land-rootedness" as the primary marker of indigenous identity:

Indigenous communities, peoples and nations are those which, having a historical continuity with pre-invasion and pre-colonial societies that developed on their territories, consider themselves distinct from other sectors of the societies now prevailing in those territories, or parts of them. They form at present non-dominant sectors of society and are determined to preserve, develop and transmit to future generations their ancestral territories, and their ethnic identity, as the basis of their continued existence as peoples, in accordance with their own cultural patterns, social institutions and legal systems.

Essentially, their fundamental survival as a community and as a distinctive people is inextricably tied to their right to occupy their traditional and original communities.

Furthermore, according to the UN on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples to the Sub-Commission on Prevention of Discrimination and Protection of Minorities ...

Article 3:  Indigenous peoples have the right of self-determination. By virtue of that right they freely determine their political status and freely pursue their economic, social and cultural development. 

 But as noted by Benedict Anderson's Imagined Communities and as discussed in, "Indigenous Peoples' Rights to Self-Determination and Territoriality" by Maivan Clech Lam:

A complex issue concerns the relationship between culture and citizenship. Since the French Revolution, modern states have tried to solidify their hold over citizens by merging the two affiliations -- one thick (culture), the other thin (citizenship). The attempt is misdirected in general, and especially unsuccessful in the case of indigenous peoples.

Millions of people today are those that have been uprooted, forcefully displaced and even ethnically cleansed. Our recognition and the awareness of such a problematic sheds light unto those that deserve their ultimate human right and human dignity through simple recognition. It may be insufficient to simply "flip" our photos on Twitter ... but when international law can't bring it back ... a collective movement and will to stand with a just act will bring through an effect ...

As a twitter follower noted:

@ThurayaDajaniСУРЭЯ

@noora888 that puzzles me, y do foreigners get to hv citizenships in our countries and some of us don't. that's so #unfair

....

She's right ... it's not fair..

Stand in solidarity and flip your picture. 

Refugees Awaiting Return .. Remembering Al-Nakba and Al-Naksa ..

UN Resolution 194:  "Refugees wishing to return to their homes and live at peace with their neighbors should be permitted to do so at the earliest practicable date, and those wishing not to return should be compensated for their property."

In the winter of 2008, I conducted field research in the UNRWA-run Palestinian refugee camps in the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan where I interviewed both 1948 and 1967 refugees. In the wake of the 64th remembrance of Al-Nakba and the 44th remembrance of Al-Naksa, I recalled an interview I had with a first-generation 1948 refugee from Lid, Palestine.  The emotional reflections of the many stories that were shared with my by refugees moved me beyond words and description. I would like to apologize, for not being able to convey the greater meaning of what Palestine and right-of-return really means for millions of Palestinians.

...

Living in the Diaspora as a Palestinian, home was always found in romantic meanings of a nation, far away from anything I grew up knowing. While, foreignness left me forging my own identity, those Palestinians, who live in the refugee camps are surrounded with a different meaning of belonging, of history, and of what it means to want to return home. For millions of Palestinians living in the refugee camps, the very symbolism of the camp was the reality of their obvious difference; their predicament; their inevitable problematic: politically, socially, psychologically and even physically through the spaces that surrounded and limited their very mobility. I talk about this more in my thesis: Intergenerational Differences of Identity... 

...

However, while so many stories resonate empty sheets with emotions and warm hearted realities of he-stories and her-stories, I'd like to share Ahmed's story with you ....

Ahmed Mohammed Qatawi:  78 year old 1948 first-generation refugee.  Ahmed talked about his exiled journey from the village of Lid, when he was 17 years old. After sleeping under olive-trees, and eventually reaching Ramallah, where he lived scattered for months, he ended up in Zarka, in Jordan in 1949. Ahmed spoke of the refugee camp development, as he emotionally motioned to how he built every part of his tiny home in the camp; from what was a mere tent, to zinco-based housings, until 1981 when they were finally able to construct their homes out of concrete/ bricks. He spoke to me of his family, his children, his brothers and sisters ... and that even after years of looking back, he tells me of how proud he is to what the Palestinians made out of themselves, despite their circumstances. I asked Ahmed if he would go back if he had the chance and why he continues to live in the refugee camp, despite the fact that it doesn't provide him with any services and the fact that it doesn't benefit him anymore. He replied, "So long as the Israelis occupy our land, we'll never be able to return. There is nothing for us to do, but wait, we've waited for over 63 years, and no matter how much they pay me to give up my right to return, I would never do it. These camps are a reminder, every single day, both to us and the international community that we are still here, waiting to return, we're not going anywhere." Ahmed felt that the camps, were the very perpetual representation of the Palestinians International right to return to their homes and return to their lands. More than ever, Ahmed wasn't gullible to the political dynamics that play a large role to his current protracted situation, if anything, he was persistently aware of his place and role in the camp.

...

Today, as we witness thousands of Palestinians refugees marching towards the borders of Palestine, from Syria to Lebanon to Jordan, and those inside the West Bank and Gaza, I think about Ahmed, and his desire to return to a home, no longer occupied, but free again. Ahmed is only another refugee amidst so many others, with stories that carry more than these pages could ever hold.

Political overload... Spiritual Ascension

Static. Torture. Injustice. Death. Darkness. Screams. Mourning. Community. Grievance. Organizing. Resistance. Struggle. Patience. Hope. Freedom. Illumination. Togetherness. Justice. Awakening. United. Continuum. Living. Surviving. Love. History. Right Now. Tomorrow.

Political journey's take us through a path
unpaved in it's structure
long in its ambition
wide in its avenues as people
enter from places
street corners, farmlands, alleyways, market-places and isolated shacks
alive in a voice empowered through an illumination
only joint in chants of iterated theoretical aspirations
ignited against angers of hatred, separation and greediness
joint in a hope for what takes it forward
steps that walk in shoes
awakened a million times too many from eyes
too hopeful to ever see
failure that meets the embrace of another
lost soul
in a struggle
deeper than the rivers inner waves
in breaths that prepare for tomorrows wakefulness
this day holds on to yesterday
with words that have gone silent
in their chatter
and laughter

...

the self finds space now
inside
internally it allows for a spiritual reflection suspected
in every heart broken or separated from puzzles too
articulate to unite
in meanings found only
when a greater goal is asserted
to be found in what comes next
in what holds us within
the greater picture of
what captures our minds in
souls that are birthed after
lost bodies creep away
bringing tears
to seek
His Ultimate Magnificence
turned in the direction
that leaves us bowing for
guidance that is lit
through His command
allowing for what is to be
despite all difficulties
we are left only to uplift our souls
with minds emptied from political affirmations
overloaded with happenings never really there
but through His embrace.

Life. Mind. Thought. Action. Lost. Lived. Felt. Submitted. Survived. Ascended.

Arab Spring, Revolution fever, youth power or just a shift in politics ..

These coming days we've come to witness the materialization of a shift in the political climate. Yes, within a year we've seen two Arab Presidents ousted by masses of un-relentless protests; as demonstrations and governments are beginning to be put into check. Citizens are getting the confidence they never had before to speak out. Fear of oppression, brutal violence and arbitrary arrests no longer suppress the peoples rage and determination to speak the truth and ask for their fundamental social and political rights. The citizenry in the middle east no longer holds the iconic representation of the backward, undemocratically motivated 'Orient', incapable in handling democracy in its full intensity. 

But, while revolutions have engaged a major political shift in the region, there is still a lot more to peddle through to win the race of democratization. Educated youth are digging through years, if not decades of built-up corruption, and intricate webs of political chaos and nefarious leaders. Egypt is still going through the battle to trail figures that for years have cheated the country of its ultimate resources; Mubarak and his progeny no doubt are only the icing on the cake. Likewise, Tunisia is still trying to hold Ben-Ali accountable for the billions of dollars in assets held abroad. Tunisia, the inspiration in the region, continues to tread through it's revolutionary tide, towards a progressive democratically based state, that is not hijacked by the old-regimes political apparatus. 

Close by, Bahrainis continue to be shut down by the monarchy; Yemen's president just won't let go of his throne as violence, arrests and false promises predicates the streets of San'a; Syria's minority regime continues to blame foreign powers in raging the streets of Damascus, as women, children and youth are shot down mercilessly, while thousands have either disappeared or are detained illegally; and Libya's Gadaffi continues to destructively break its country to pieces. 

While recently in Palestine and around the world, Palestinians commemorated the 63rd Nakba - catastrophe - where the world saw a wave of demonstrators unlike years before it; and soon, we will be seeing another wave of demonstrators on June 5th, to mourn another tragic event in the Palestinians plight. Predictions of a third-intifada creep closer, as frustrations mount and promises continue to be unfulfilled. 

All the while, Obama engages us with one of his hollywood-like speeches, that screams to be made into an oscar-winning movie, of inauspicious declarations, and promises that only seem to frustrate the Arab public. And Obama's "yes we can" moto only leaves us hating the US a little less from the Bush-era, unfortunately, the political rhetoric is always moved by the same strings, powered by the hands that allude our minds of self-controlled social democracy. Afterall, Obama did kill Osama, but only after a decade of a destructive military invasion in Afghanistan. 

It's not ironic that within the same week of reconciliation by Fatah and Hamas, Obama's hopes of a return to the 1967 borders are only shattered by Israel, and only further coated by Obama's following speech at AIPAC that Israel will not be bullied, as it's big-brother vows to protect and veto any opposition towards them. It's also not ironic, that Israel's willingness to blatantly violate international law is easily brushed aside, as normality hinders the media in raising a claim against what is right and what is wrong. 

Inasmuch as we'd like to foretell what comes next in the world of international affairs, analysts and "think-tanks" are hard at work to predict what will happen. Ultimately, politics in its entirety is static, binding us to the repercussions of fallible leaders, that dictate events so fluidly, it often leaves us questioning our very belief system (is it really some sort of conspiracy theory??.. ) . Time has definitely created a shift in the winds that push politics forward, where corporate and strategic interests are moving more aggressively and shamelessly in every effort to remain strong and attain (and maintain) their power. 

The wave of protests are not coming to an end, organizers, political activists, youth groups, opposition parties, etc. are organizing, planning and coordinating for whatever awaits them in the coming political spaces. Time seems to transpire what tic tocs in the pockets of its sleeves, as we watch incessantly (and exhaustively) to what lies ahead.  

Lost in the colours of your eyes

This image paints a story found in the intricate details of your minds horizon. Sometimes, it is in the simplest of things that we find absolute greatness. 

I invite you to leave stories and notes on what this image says to you.. 

Captured bodies, Seeking Refuge ...

This Poem is dedicated to Palestinian children arbitrarily detained in Israeli prisons. And to those that continue to live in confined compounded places, in restricted lands, and torn refugee camps; at home and internally exiled simultaneously.

______________________________________________

Rubbles of dust carried between the boys feet,

rushing through narrow side streets

hitting his shoulders between the pavement walls,

scrapping the surfaces of his skin as he flees.

His body no longer holds control over him,

heels barely touch the muddy terrains

of this camp... cramped, tight, moving bodies

carried in the square parameters of their homes ...

permanently waiting,

temporarily en route,

in exile from the soils of their great-grand-mothers...

Hushing through the violent breaths

clouding his lungs, grueling in pain with every inhale,

his blackened face hides between

his bleeding knees that sting with every tear

dripping on the surface...

Like a bullet shot that tears the ear drums sound beat,

he jumps, in a flash, jetting to the next dark corner

providing haven,

giving shade,

temporarily frozen to gasp another breath,

terrified of his predestined conclusion...

he shuts his eyes, tightly gripping to the loose sands beneath him..

Silently motionless, body no longer sensing any pain..

his mind takes him afar, suppressed from this dark corner,

the light no longer hits his eyes to the conscious realities of now,

his cold body journey’s his soul to a new dimension concealed in space..

As he awakens from the subliminal uncounted lost moments of what was,

he is blinded by the flashing lights exposing

his lifeless body, to surrounding gates of steel..

surrounding him in every corner... right and left..

no where to turn, he stares mindlessly forward,

uttering no sound,

au fait to what awaits

the next act in this story line,

holding cue to the next scene,

holding his tongue to the voices

of the imprisoned character that stands still in him..

Without notice, he begins to feel again,

the slashes that sting his back, splitting open

the screams muted in him..

his eyes no longer veiled by the dazzles of the flashes,

he stares coldly at a young soldier,

smirking, emotionless, cold, vacantly empty..

of the dark destinies that this child holds..

No longer fighting, he surrenders,

against the chains encapsulating his sore wrists,

his tears cease to flow,

against the shields that guarded his soul

his body is left uncovered,

exposed,

abandoned,

dispensed to the darkness of the night..

Falesteen

This poem was written on March 7th, 2009. Recently, after watching 'Miral', I pulled out this poem, reminding me of the time when I was denied entry into the West Bank. Miral, was more than just a movie that spoke to us of the continued protracted struggle Palestinians are hanging on to for over 63 years of occupation. It's about the struggle that lives on, of the Palestinians living inside in the midst of occupation, curfews, detentions, and mistreatment. This poem represents a tiny element of what Palestine, Falesteen means to me.

___________________________________________________________

In you I am
existing in the soils
growing in the very sands that witnessed the sacrifices of its roots

In you I am
preserved in the ashes -- allowing it to raise higher and stronger beyond the face of death
for the innocent beloved laughs -- that once hovered over the skies of Falesteen

In you I am
in the eyes that glistened dreams that spoke beyond bombs and bullets
rising beyond the trenches that is suffocating her

In you I am
eyes that only see straight to the walls
that testify the pain in the bullet holes that peaks through these frail curtains,
giving light to the darkness

In you I am
breathing a light that only sheds through in the falls of curfews


at the position of limited mobility --- a checkpoint questions my right to my nativeness
Identity number 56789039 -- sorry, A-rabs not allowed
invalid entry --- denied entrance -- stolen right to my al3awda
sorry ma’am -- security measures -- decision is not in our hands -- move along now
but where to? frozen in the inbounds of undesignated territories
inhaling the airs that cross border controls, checkpoints, interrogations and check ups
crossing over to calm my patience -- rest assure I will return, we will return
bewildered in the animosity of my existence -- I move along now, next window please
Citizenship ? ancestral origin? Religion? relations? reasons? denials of self-determined rights?
colonial imprints fill its memories of an indigenous right that yearns to return
digging through the layers that form the misconceptions of what forms that which make me
unaware that my search will retrieve the hidden destruction --
concealing slaughters that sting the aromatic surfaces of erased he-stories and her-stories

....

Falesteen exists in you...
zaytoon -- dripping in the tears that feed its undeniably salient growth
pillars -- that read erased territories: Qatamon, Yafa - bride of Palestine, Haifa, Bir Il Sabi3, Barbara, - standing backbones -- Majdal, Khan Yunis, Gaza, Tulkarem, Ramllah, Nablus, Qalqilya..
on and on and on -- miles and miles your gracious body held me -- years before i was birthed
bounded by the umbilical cords of your soil, I am alive, re-defined, in existence
exiled -- a Diaspora -- protracted -- prolonged -- and still waiting,
never forgiving and never forgetting

.....

Today and everyday,
the Mediterranean captures a portrait of your stillness --
reflected off the hot sun that rays hope past the destitute of its struggle
hiding away with the departure of another exiled sunset...

and in the fading images of what was, what is, and what will be...
I am in you...

Reflections of the Almighty.

After visiting the Kaaba, one cannot help but reflect on the Greatness and Almightiness of God. This post speaks of the emotional magnitude that overwhelms one when really contemplating and reflecting on Allah, Subhanahu wata3ala.
______

We cannot fathom what lies in the valleys of this pathway, that which ends with the promises that have been foretold to us by He who Has Created and Destined all things. We walk through our days with utter hypocrisy to what bequeaths us internally and what embodies our tenacious forms externally. In grasping knowledge filled in deep vast oceans, we will never suffice our minds with what it can only contingently hold; knowing that in the palms of His Mastery we are nothing, but weak slaves, quested to simply breath to please His Almighty Magnificence.

How do we stand, facing our souls in the mirrors of our hearts, where we will never be free until we completely and sincerely submit to His Divinity? Yet, how are we able to do that when all we are consumed with is the egoic drive that speeds our minds within a perplexed battlefield that consume our beings with imposed expectations of our sedated secularized societies.

It is only in the face of loss, the realities of death and the end of what holds dear in the temporal moments of these days, that we are careful to err, more conscious to speak and begin to repeatedly remember the Creator in His Utmost Magnificence.

We are lost in the desires of highs and lows that form our bodies and minds with molded conceptions of what defines our selves through material gains and losses, subjective titles, enforced hierarchies of subjugated beings and inner ascension or deficiency of our spiritual standings with His Almighty.

We fail to discipline our caprice due to poor control and order to frame our limitations to that of foreverness of His unfathomable promised Afterlife.

And in all ways to define our relations to Him, we can never come close to comprehend our value, in it’s tiniest form until we are faced with the end of the road, the final steps, the last breaths ..

In all feelings and emotions that could be imagined when held to His Divinity, we lose ourselves, absenting words, shedding our skins of any clothed masks of our Selves, and are left to simply be ... bare

Reflecting on the rippling "Revolutionary" effects in the Arab World.

It goes without saying that youth, activists, workers, women and elderly are joining together in light of the inspirational revolutions sparked in Tunisia and Egypt. Who would have known that only four months ago, Mohammed Bouazizi, the Tunisian street vendor, famously known for setting himself on fire, would find the Arab world, in a domino-like effect, spiraling viral protests across the region. This blog-post was inspired primarily after the Jordanian protests, not because the Libyan, Syrian, Yemeni, or Bahraini protests are not as fundamental; rather because the protests sparked a few comments on twitter that alluded me to reflect on the current political climate in the region.

Who would have known that in such a short span, decade-long dictators would be toppled down, giving the people the power to speak out and take control of their own political destiny. Who would have known that years of colonial, and imperial representations of the people would be dismantled through a collective body of people, joined together with one voice. Constructions of the Orient are tabula rasa, no longer inferred. For there are no "Clashes of Civilization". There are no "apolitical" bodies incapable of handling "democracy". There are no uneducated, incompetent minds willing to stay silent. There are no longer Islamophobic or racial assertions to blame citizens for their inability in taking political and individual action unto themselves. Who would have known, that after December 17th, 2010, a personal self-immolation, sparked by desperation, frustration, humiliation and harassment, that the Middle East would never be the same again.

The reasons for such actions and reactions are not because people are randomly trying to replicate Tunisia's and Egypt's successful ousting of their long-standing dictators, but because Tunisia and Egypt provided a voice, for millions of people who have been silent for far too long. Bouazizi's act of rage, brought out years of swallowed sorrows and frustrations in the citizen's nation-state.

Essentially, for some countries, like Syria, Libya, Bahrain, Yemen and the like, the call for some people, is not simply or merely a call for a revolution, but a call for change; a call for freedom; a call for effective reform; a call for deconstructing unjust tribal control; a call for fair and moral dealings; a call for an obligatory recognition for citizens rights; a call against spacial restrictions; a call against political limitations; a call against class division and class-based control; and a call for human rights in its very primitive nature et al ...

Protests, calls for reforms, demands for change, active community involvements, etc., are not demands against the nation, but against despotic or corrupt state-bodies. Those who speak out are not against their country. Those who speak out are seeking the betterment and the greater fulfillment of their country, now, tomorrow and for the future generations to come. Those who speak out, do so, because silence maintains a deaf stability hesitant to reacting to change, in fear that the status-quo might be affected. Those who act out, do so, because they have the right to do so; because freedom of speech is not limited to theoretical assumptions and rhetorical assertions. And because citizens are not simply absent subjects.

"Baby", my nanny... and my lingering memories of her ...

A dusty old Dubai airport and a stranded little red leather luggage, was my last memories of her. As I walked away in the afternoon heat heading home, I was left feeling like a part of me left my side.

I must note that my memories of her, "baby", my Philapenno Nanny, was of the vivid moments that moved beyond myriad photographs of a Migrant worker travelling to the Gulf for a better opportunity. It was 1985, "baby" as I had called her, was my companion, my caretaker, and my sleep-watcher, entered our families life, in Sharjah, UAE and was set to help out the family. While, her presence was not to fully there to satisfy my very existence, she was hired on to take care of the family, as the youngest, I ended up being in her company for most of the time.

My mother, at the time, accompanied my father in our family-business in the downtown streets of Sharjah, as she assisted him in our shop, Dama. Today, the store remains, but sold off to another owner that alternatively changed the name to "Daman", an "N" that would change the store in its entirety.

Essentially, my mother's full-time work with my father, kept her from spending as much time with us. Mind you, she was active and was at the forefront in our lives. My writings are not to address the loss of having my mother around, but to point out the significance of "baby", a women, who now is married with children in the Philapenes, will always be a significant part of my childhood memory. I never knew her name, and have always, as my family had done, called her as "baby".

In the coming years that came to pass, the representation of "baby", was reflected in the many migrant workers I would come across, most often, in the gulf, Middle Eastern regions. After moving to Canada in late 1993 with my family, we no longer had nanny's, and learned to live without them. Something, that many family members living the gulf can not fathom. The essentialism of having a nanny, servant, or house maid was reflective on the normative nature of the society. It was not of an elitest nature to have a maid (or two), live in the house / apartment with the family. Some of my family members have had the same nanny for over 18 years, who has now become a part of their family's lives, in that she doesn't miss a graduation, ceremony, or birthday. While of course, her presence remains as the person that takes care of the families needs, cooks for them, cleans and takes care of the house, her significance moved beyond a mere "Migrant Worker". And, even after years of service, and in requesting to go back to her home country, she still remains in contact with the family.

Tainted were my memories of "baby" that made me feel abandoned and left out at the airport, only to realize that she had a husband and was pregnant with her first daughter. She was ready to begin her life, and couldn't be working thousands of miles away in the hot gulf country, distant from her indigenous roots and belonging. As a six year old, little did I know that individuals, especially of the global south, left their families, friends and belongings to travel dangerous distances towards unpredictable, unstable environments for greater opportunities not found in their impoverished cities and villages. Little did I know of the exploitation and the inslavery that is produced through the subordination of Migrant workers in foreign lands. Little could I fathom, that the same woman that would sing me a lullaby every night, was sacraficing so much to please my family to be away from her own.

After a three month vacation, in which "baby" had travelled to the Philapenes to visit her family, she had gotten married. She came back pregnant and ready to give her notice to return back to her country. She made the choice of starting a family, with her family. And, as I stood confused, and sad on the day she left, I would not have been able to comprehend her choice back then. As I witnessed "baby" pack her belongings away in a suitcase, I quickly rushed and got my little dark red leather suitcase, filled it with my favorite dresses and stuffed animals. My father had refrained from telling me that I wasn't getting on the plane with her until we had gotten to the airport. She waved goodbye and headed towards the terminal in the crowded Dubai airport, as I was taken to the "children's" entrance that lead to the parking lot to our car. Only then to realize, that she had gone. I stood there, for what seemed like forever, weeping for her to return.

The Politicization of Emotions

Split into who's who we,

are divided into subjugated souls

moving everyday to satisfy our obligatory

duties, responsibilities and positions.

Those who are subordinated,

those who subordinate,

those who stand aside in silence

watching

a divide unfairly splitting the minds of people

into those that say

and those that don't.

And while anger seems satisfying

in the moment where we position our Selves,

in front of other bodies,

questioning, judging and tearing through our

characters, to further define, refine and align

who we are with

who they are.

A split, incessantly breaking our backs

for the pleasure of their high chairs,

watching down,

thinking low,

fragmenting any possibility of an interconnection

to homogenize flesh

into spaces stationed in classes

masked faces of sophistication

cushioned in warmed-up stations.

Individuals marked in name tags,

of Hello, my name is ... never heard

unknown, and unacknowledged

in anonymous faces

cloned to mirror

plastered billboards of

materialized fabrics to squeeze

into sizes too small to fit all.

Voiceless Words: Contemplating Rumi: Wanderings of the Mind

Rumi says: "There is a voice that doesn't use words." ...

And there are words that at times find a shyness in explications that which is bound to the mysteries of the mind and soulful wanderings. It's ironic how our mind tackles our hearts in shackles for the enjoyment of control, or is it the other way around, mind you, we continue to enslave our selves to boundaries beyond our bounds, all without accepting that we have already been sold to a Master, He who is the Origin, the Creator of our very subsisting dependence unto the Master, that which we live for, work for, love for and even die for, but it seems that in the day where slave-hood is engrossed in large distracting billboards and capitalistic material domination, our minds fools us to believe that we are free, without chains that bound us to selling our thoughts, our minds, our bodies, our labour and our values. Yet again, who do we live for? "There is a voice that doesn't use words.", for at times words are not worthy enough to be uttered in the vicinity of the Maker, the Holder, the Omnipotent.... yet still, yet again, we lose shame, lose fear, lose our place in this world to the lights that blind us into assuming that which isn't so.

So what? why bother? Because our inability to subjugate our minds to the real-ness of what surrounds us, to bring back to the ground that which flies higher than it can before realizing it flies with no wings in place, continues to chain their minds to constricted make-ups of our society. And with this we push to guard, question, act and react to that which forms our very identities and constructs.

Rumi asks one to use silence as a way to deconstruct the mysteries behind the voiceless words, to enable the digger room to dig without interruption of speech. But only in the submission to nothingness, to the surrender of a greater Holiness, we are truly free, enabled to once again return to the core of our being, and the reason of our existence; for nothing is without what forms its creation and its precise creation is no more than formed through His creation.

For true guidance, in effect, finds true pleasure in the characters the He names Himself, All-Mighty and Majestic; through patience, through generosity, through strength, and through light we are lifted from weakness, discontent, lifelessness and depressions; for the possession of good character is greater than the possession of great wealth. As such, we learn not to use the over-used, often over-rated means of words to move us, guide us and lift us from the places we are at. Regrettably, our tongues continue to roll in un-conspicuous forms that leave us haunted and anguished by the consequential damage that eats through our flesh.

Leaving us to return to the voiceless words that swim in the waters of our souls, warmly suited by our hearts for the pleasures of our poetic embrace.

Silence.


... leaving me only to ... breath a breath of many more breaths......

Looking Back at Egypt - pre-Revolutionary era: Cultural Photojournalism

In a recent visit to Egypt, November 2010, something more than ever struck me, more than usual, more than the normalized portraits we have begun getting used to. In the years I've visited Egypt, and the short while I lived there, poverty was always hanging off the edge, waiting to burst at any moment. Amidst a corrupt despotic regime, the social strata had begun to lose faith not only in the system but partly in themselves. An exhausted nation, working through it's teeth against an oppressive regime, was evidently calling for a revolution to bring insanity back into order. A revolution that was to find its way in the palms of Tahrir Square, trickling it's way in every alleyway and dirty dark corner in Egypt, too soon than anyone ever expected.

These images are but a particle of what was begging to be let out of the bag. Change is yet to prevail in the post-Mubarak era. Essentially, it is through a social political effort, that the people will slowly (if not quickly) see the effects of such a change trickling down.

(Photos taken by Noora Sharrab, November 2010)