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...

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.

Rochelle, just another Migrant Worker ..

So, I got my nails done. After much contemplation of the bourgeois-like atmosphere filled in the Amman-salons, I decided, why not pretty myself up. Ironically, after conversing with some friends about the idea of being fashionably instinctive, I realized that I often fail in putting the effort, not because I don't mind dressing up, but because I don't want to be categorized as one who's more consumed in herself than what's happening around her. And while, my manicure might make me feel a little feminine for a couple of hours, essentially, sitting in the beauty shop being pampered by a migrant worker while people are losing their lives in revolutions and historic political changes, makes me feel, a little full of myself.

But that's not the purpose of my post today. Today, I want to share a story of Rochelle, the Manicurist. A young, thirty-three year old Philippina, living in Amman, Jordan. Rochelle has been living in Jordan for over 5 years now.

At the age of 27 years old, a young mother of three, and having just given birth to her youngest daughter, who is now 5 years old, Rochelle had finally arranged the final paperwork to allow her to travel abroad for work. Living in a modest home, her husband, an employee at a bank, making barely enough to the sustain the growth of his vibrant family, Rochelle made an independent decision to travel. And not your conveniently adventurous type of travel to explore the world, but rather an unrelenting desire to provide for her family, in whatever means possible; even if it meant being separated from them. Rochelle explained that if she ever stayed in the Philippines she would never be able to make enough to save any money or make a significant amount for her labour.

In 2005, after arranging with a recruiting agency, Rochelle saved enough money to pay for her ticket to Jordan, where she was to spend the next two years with a Jordanian nuclear family with two children living in the city of Dabouk, notorious for being the "Kings" neighborhood. Rochelle reminisced of her time in her employers home. "I was not allowed to leave the house, and had to work 7 days a week, with no break... I didn't know how to be a maid in the beginning, and my Madame used to always shout at me... " Rochelle despairingly confessed that for many nights she would cry remembering her children, regretting that she did not bring with her pictures or memories to help her long-nights without them. So much so, that in fear of jeopardizing her work-environment, she was instructed not to bring any valuables with her, not even her wedding-band. A disconnected attachment to loved ones so far away, only acknowledged by the mere monetary savings, no more than $225 sent back home once a month; while, she kept about $150 for her daily needs for the month.

At the time, for two years, Rochelle was paid $200 US dollars, where she worked for over twelve hours a day, 7 days a week, accounting to about $6 dollars a day, not even the minimum wage paid to a young worker in North America. [e.g.The minimum wage in Toronto today is about $10.25/hr] As soon as her contract was over, her employer failed to purchase the promised return ticket home, for Rochelle to visit her family. Rochelle, rejected to renew her contract with the family, and moved out, into a small apartment in third-circle Amman, to work two jobs to help sustain herself and attempt to regain her freedom.

Today, Rochelle works at a middle-class like beauty salon, specializing in Manicures and Pedicures, while also accepting part-time work both cleaning homes and providing private beauty services in customer's homes. Making approximately 450 JODs a month, and paying about 90 JODs for rent, Rochelle estimates that in a year she would be able to save enough money to travel back home to visit her children and husband. Rochelle confessed that while her life felt heavy and discomforting at times, the only thing to sedate her to numbness were her anti-depressant pills. Sleeping a little better, crying a little less, Rochelle numbed her responsibilities to a sole purpose that she believed was destined to help her family live a better life.

While, Rochelle is just another Migrant Worker among the hundreds of thousands that live in Jordan, and in the Arab region, her story, like many others, help us regard Migrant Workers as more than mere subordinates here to serve us for some cheap often refused labour by a local. Rochelle tells of friends often so desperate as to surrender their bodily-integrity to keep living. She tells me, that she is thankful to have never been in that situation, and that whenever she feels down she feels like she could be in worst hands. Today, Rochelle tells me that she feels a little more free, allowed to come and go as she pleases, allowed to go to the grocery store, and walk around the block, she feels a little more free in her ability to come and go, but limited to the expensive lifestyle in Jordan.

Too many times, I've come across discriminate attitudes for an Indonesian, Philippino, Indian, Sri-Lakan, or another Asian, that travel thousands of miles, far from friends and family in the attempts to live a better life, or explore greater opportunities.

Think not low of the next cheap labored Migrant Worker you encounter... but rather of their continued sacrifices to survive. What makes us any better, than the destined conditions that were set for us?

Flipped the Channel

Today I turn off Al-Jazeera,

Moving away from symbolic

revolutionary images that overwhelmed

the streets of al-Qahira..

The people, in absolute unison

moved in a scattered orderly

disorganization

shaking off the cold

from their faces

through smiles

chants

and unstoppable

hope.

Today, I couldn’t watch any news,

weak

and frail

to images

of strong sisters,

and brothers ..

Today, my mind wanted material

entertaining reels of

irrelevant fictions of pretty lights

and glamorizing colors..

Today, my mind cheated,

it took a break

from moments

that continue to overwhelm

the days

and brittle nights

of Egyptians

camping

standing

chanting

singing

and persistently fighting

in a struggle that continues

to overwhelm their

hearts

over their bodies

of mind over

any feelings

left weakening

any doubt and

hesitation to cease

in their protests at hand.

Today, I flipped through channels,

looking for another sight,

looking for a moment,

at other stories,

only left daydreaming of

the illuminosity

of Tahrir Square

glowing even

in the un-silenced

darkness that

surrounds their bodies,

protected

in guard

by their

collective order.

Today, after hours of flipping through,

lost in slow

tics on my clock

I passed time

baking

dessert that would only be hovered

with burnt sides

of fires

blazing miles away

in a country

I do not call my own

but hugs the sides of

my distant land

carried heavily and

rigidly

the isolated

precarious soils of

Rafah,

Qita3 Gaza

Khan Yunis,

for a history,

to wide to speak

of now..

Today, as I

spoke to my parents

over Skype,

I realized

in their sedated tones

in the 16th day

of continued protests

they busied their days

with political reports,

over sweet hot tea

steeped in Maramiya.

My mother tells me

she hasn’t left the house

in over two weeks,

not because she doesn’t support

the struggle of the Egyptians,

but of fear that Mubarak’s thugs

will curtail her intentions

falsely and

harm her ..

“We’re not Egyptians..”

she says,

“there’s rumors saying

they’re attacking foreigners..

and they don’t care if we’re Canadian ..

or Palestinians..”

Identity over reason..

Today,

I later went back..

to Nilesat

channel 167

to Aljazeera International

to listen..

awaken

and swallow

the sorrows and

struggles that continue

to carry their

demands up high

in banners

posters and

rhetorical comedy

in laughter

and anger..

Another day...

another today..

another hope

for a betterment

in hope

love

and a strengthen community ..

Tomorrow awaits...

Images on Al-Jazeera

Images on Al-Jazeera continue

to scurry through people’s faces,

chanting,

screaming,

yelling,

crying,

beaten,

cheated

and bleeding..

Still to the colors

of Red, White, Black

and the golden Eagle,

united they stand,

in a square named after

the very freedom they are fighting for.

Tahrir they call it,

Liberation will come,

if they have to march for

12, 14, 15, 30 days to come ..

Liberation it is, in bodies that stand

against violence,

attacks

and harassments from the thug's regime...

State TV screens a play,

sanitized

for the wealthy eyes to see...

fooled only by the images

they replay in disguise..

Round the clock,

reports,

documentations,

interviews and

demands..

Images on Al-Jazeera

keep me tossing at night..

In the way lines straighten your phrases

into sought out laces

in spaces

of clothed races

& faces,

worry not if your pencil leaves you

in blazes ..

but fear

only the silence of the letters

speaking of truth and exploitation..

a starved people not a day longer

can carve through

broken doorways..

toppled too many times

by the Mukhabarat..

Images on Al-Jazeera,

speak to me of courageous

and fearless citizens,

standing in resistance against

an autocratic ruler refusing to leave..

In glory

and shame,

united

they endure

the pressure enforced unto their dignities

and aims..

Tunisia the inspiration,

of a spark that continues to flare,

against burnt bodies

scorched in accusations

of insanity

and mental retardation..

Muzzled and censored,

for years,

decades and generations

hushed and shushed

cries of the people,

while silently

stuffing their pockets

with billions

of shekels..

collaborations and secret interests rules the game,

in the face of fame and distorted gains...

don’t tell me this

is a shrewd puppet show

playing backstage..

do you not see

the rage

furring the people,

young and old..

women and men...

Muslim and Christian,

non-believer or whatever..

there is no hidden-political agenda..

an organic movement,

grown in the backyards

of capitalized farmlands

and tainted soils..

of founded truthness,

colored in passion...

of rediscovered harmony

in their countries nationalization..

of rhythmic slogans

and voices in unification..

of Mohammed,

Karim,

Sally,

Ahmed,

Saif

and Amr..

lost their lives,

marching to the streets

for a reason to change,

a country corrupt

so bad

its mirage no longer stands

in the distance of hope and imaginations....

of bodies bruised

and abused...

souls lost

and distorted..

in a struggle that remains

and continues ..

for countries are not

representatives of leaders

or dictators...

but of its people in all foundations...

white, black, brown or blue...

together

for a better tomorrow they stand...

Tunisia’s revolution

did not end with Ben Ali...

the country's building

back its sanity..

from years

of uprooted dreams

and stolen possibilities ...

Orientalists descriptions

of ignorant,

backward,

undemocratic A-rabs

unable to comprehend or handle to rule

a country without an authoritarian oppressor..

putting people in their places,

muted

and dumbed

into absolute sedation..

but no longer will we stand

mourning for lost days ..

today

the people united..

one voice,

in masses...

demanding nothing

but the name

of the square they stand under..

Liberation,

7horriya,

freedom..

against Mubarak, Soleiman and their mafia's rule...

in the words

of Wael Ghonim

on twitter

“..Failure

is not an Option..” ...