Why I Threw The Shoe
I am no hero. I just acted as an Iraqi who witnessed the pain and bloodshed of too many innocents
by Muntazer al-Zaidi
I am free. But my country is still a prisoner of war. There has been a lot of talk about the action and about the person who took it, and about the hero and the heroic act, and the symbol and the symbolic act. But, simply, I answer: what compelled me to act is the injustice that befell my people, and how the occupation wanted to humiliate my homeland by putting it under its boot.
Over recent years, more than a million martyrs have fallen by the bullets of the occupation and Iraq is now filled with more than five million orphans, a million widows and hundreds of thousands of maimed. Many millions are homeless inside and outside the country.
We used to be a nation in which the Arab would share with the Turkman and the Kurd and the Assyrian and the Sabean and the Yazid his daily bread. And the Shia would pray with the Sunni in one line. And the Muslim would celebrate with the Christian the birthday of Christ. This despite the fact that we shared hunger under sanctions for more than a decade.
Our patience and our solidarity did not make us forget the oppression. But the invasion divided brother from brother, neighbour from neighbour. It turned our homes into funeral tents.
I am not a hero. But I have a point of view. I have a stance. It humiliated me to see my country humiliated; and to see my Baghdad burned, my people killed. Thousands of tragic pictures remained in my head, pushing me towards the path of confrontation. The scandal of Abu Ghraib. The massacre of Falluja, Najaf, Haditha, Sadr City, Basra, Diyala, Mosul, Tal Afar, and every inch of our wounded land. I travelled through my burning land and saw with my own eyes the pain of the victims, and heard with my own ears the screams of the orphans and the bereaved. And a feeling of shame haunted me like an ugly name because I was powerless.
As soon as I finished my professional duties in reporting the daily tragedies, while I washed away the remains of the debris of the ruined Iraqi houses, or the blood that stained my clothes, I would clench my teeth and make a pledge to our victims, a pledge of vengeance.
The opportunity came, and I took it.
I took it out of loyalty to every drop of innocent blood that has been shed through the occupation or because of it, every scream of a bereaved mother, every moan of an orphan, the sorrow of a rape victim, the teardrop of an orphan.
I say to those who reproach me: do you know how many broken homes that shoe which I threw had entered? How many times it had trodden over the blood of innocent victims? Maybe that shoe was the appropriate response when all values were violated.
When I threw the shoe in the face of the criminal, George Bush, I wanted to express my rejection of his lies, his occupation of my country, my rejection of his killing my people. My rejection of his plundering the wealth of my country, and destroying its infrastructure. And casting out its sons into a diaspora.
If I have wronged journalism without intention, because of the professional embarrassment I caused the establishment, I apologise. All that I meant to do was express with a living conscience the feelings of a citizen who sees his homeland desecrated every day. The professionalism mourned by some under the auspices of the occupation should not have a voice louder than the voice of patriotism. And if patriotism needs to speak out, then professionalism should be allied with it.
I didn't do this so my name would enter history or for material gains. All I wanted was to defend my country.
Muntazer al-Zaidi is an Iraqi reporter who was freed this week after serving nine months in prison for throwing his shoe at former US president George Bush at a press conference. This edited statement was translated by McClatchy Newspapers correspondent Sahar Issa www.mcclatchydc.com
Friday, September 18, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
A book review
Talking India: Ashis Nandy in conversation with Ramin Jahanbegloo
I read this book over the summer along with Beyza and Hima and liked it a lot. Highly recommend it to everyone. This is a good review of the book. I'm sure the concluding paragraph is bound to catch the attention of some of you :-):
For much too long Indians, Iranians, Indonesians, Africans and others have not conversed with each other, each reserving their cultural and intellectual exchanges for the ‘West’. Talking India, which brings an Indian intellectual into conversation with an Iranian one, is a refreshing sign of the possibilities of forms of interculturalism other than those which have been bequeathed to us by the West.
I read this book over the summer along with Beyza and Hima and liked it a lot. Highly recommend it to everyone. This is a good review of the book. I'm sure the concluding paragraph is bound to catch the attention of some of you :-):
For much too long Indians, Iranians, Indonesians, Africans and others have not conversed with each other, each reserving their cultural and intellectual exchanges for the ‘West’. Talking India, which brings an Indian intellectual into conversation with an Iranian one, is a refreshing sign of the possibilities of forms of interculturalism other than those which have been bequeathed to us by the West.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
an old article i bumped into but the violence is anything but old
Farah tried to plead with the US troops but she was killed anyway
"What is perhaps most shocking about their deaths is that the coalition troops who killed them did not even bother to record details of the raid with the coalition military press office. The killings were that unremarkable. What happened in Mahmudiya last week should not be forgotten, for the story of this raid is also the story of the dark side of the US-led occupation of Iraq, of the violent and sometimes lethal raids carried out apparently beyond any accountability."
--> Is there a bright side of the occupation?!?! and how is the non-record the most shocking aspect of their deaths???!!!! What kinda unreal, dreamy idea these people fancy about war/colonial occupation?!
"What is perhaps most shocking about their deaths is that the coalition troops who killed them did not even bother to record details of the raid with the coalition military press office. The killings were that unremarkable. What happened in Mahmudiya last week should not be forgotten, for the story of this raid is also the story of the dark side of the US-led occupation of Iraq, of the violent and sometimes lethal raids carried out apparently beyond any accountability."
--> Is there a bright side of the occupation?!?! and how is the non-record the most shocking aspect of their deaths???!!!! What kinda unreal, dreamy idea these people fancy about war/colonial occupation?!
Sunday, August 30, 2009
hey, what have you guys been up to?
how was your summer? any interesting trips, experiences, readings, news... to share? :-)
I was at home for most of the summer, doing more readings than usual... more readings than writings I should've completed i regret to say... but it also felt great and rewarding to read so many stories from different places. I read Chinua Achebe's novels and loved swimming in his caressing river of Ibo words and proverbs while at the same time trying to immerge myself in his characters' poignant struggles. I read Homi Bhabha's Location of Culture and of course didn't understand nearly as much as i wished to. While I admire his sublimely poetic writing, I have this nagging feeling that if only he could write in less cryptic codes, i'd be able to agree with him so much more :-))) sometimes i marked a whole passage as if i got what he's talking about without understanding what he's saying at all :D Charmaine, did you by any chance feel the same? I know it's a book to revisit many times though, and im in no hurry :-)
I also read a few short books by Ashis Nandy and liked them all (The Intimate Enemy - this one is a classic - highly recommended!!, An Ambiguous Journey to the City, Talking India); was particularly struck by his observation about how secularly motivated and implemented violence is often belyingly produced as religiously rooted riots/strife in the Indian context.
Perhaps most engraved in my mind are the moving, inspiring, but also terrifying memoirs of the Vietnamese who fought against the French and the American, those who were imprisoned and tortured and yet resisted till the very last breath, those who battled and were soooo close to being buried by bombs and mines along with their friends in Dien Bien Phu, those who got shot in the eyes and still continued firing back fiercely, those who volunteered to have their leg amputated without any palliative drug to save the limited anesthetics for their comrades, pleading with the surgeon "please save it, please, many others will need it more than me".... One person I remember vividly: his legs were cuffed down to the floor in a pitch-dark black-painted windowless room, it was his fourth day of no eating, no drinking in protest of the enemy's inhumane in-prison treatment, his body was fatigued, they put human feces near him to make him suffer, and yet at this extremely trying moment he was making a poem (!!!) expressing his undying belief in eventual liberation, and what's more, he stretched his hand to grab the spoon they gave him for eating, rubbed it against the floor to hone one end sharp and, despite how little energy was left in him, tried to sit up (with torturously aching ankles) and use the sharpened spoon to carve the poem of fire on the wall!!!!! can you believe it?! I mean it's not unimaginable, it's like that revolutionary man in Rang De Basanti who engraved his immortal poem on the wall in his solitary confinement... and also like many other unyielding fighters who hold their heart's ideals sacred and intact in spite of all trials and tribulations... but still, totally credible as it is, the person's incredible account does not cease to amaze to me!!
...
I really wish we could all do a live adda together now (I actually wish that every day, especially now that so many of you are not around VC any more :-( )... but since a reunion's not possible until... maybe the next ISA?, let's blog adda in the meantime ;-) hope to hear from all of you soon!
Lots of love,
wb
http://www.commondreams.org/view/2009/08/28-1
I was at home for most of the summer, doing more readings than usual... more readings than writings I should've completed i regret to say... but it also felt great and rewarding to read so many stories from different places. I read Chinua Achebe's novels and loved swimming in his caressing river of Ibo words and proverbs while at the same time trying to immerge myself in his characters' poignant struggles. I read Homi Bhabha's Location of Culture and of course didn't understand nearly as much as i wished to. While I admire his sublimely poetic writing, I have this nagging feeling that if only he could write in less cryptic codes, i'd be able to agree with him so much more :-))) sometimes i marked a whole passage as if i got what he's talking about without understanding what he's saying at all :D Charmaine, did you by any chance feel the same? I know it's a book to revisit many times though, and im in no hurry :-)
I also read a few short books by Ashis Nandy and liked them all (The Intimate Enemy - this one is a classic - highly recommended!!, An Ambiguous Journey to the City, Talking India); was particularly struck by his observation about how secularly motivated and implemented violence is often belyingly produced as religiously rooted riots/strife in the Indian context.
Perhaps most engraved in my mind are the moving, inspiring, but also terrifying memoirs of the Vietnamese who fought against the French and the American, those who were imprisoned and tortured and yet resisted till the very last breath, those who battled and were soooo close to being buried by bombs and mines along with their friends in Dien Bien Phu, those who got shot in the eyes and still continued firing back fiercely, those who volunteered to have their leg amputated without any palliative drug to save the limited anesthetics for their comrades, pleading with the surgeon "please save it, please, many others will need it more than me".... One person I remember vividly: his legs were cuffed down to the floor in a pitch-dark black-painted windowless room, it was his fourth day of no eating, no drinking in protest of the enemy's inhumane in-prison treatment, his body was fatigued, they put human feces near him to make him suffer, and yet at this extremely trying moment he was making a poem (!!!) expressing his undying belief in eventual liberation, and what's more, he stretched his hand to grab the spoon they gave him for eating, rubbed it against the floor to hone one end sharp and, despite how little energy was left in him, tried to sit up (with torturously aching ankles) and use the sharpened spoon to carve the poem of fire on the wall!!!!! can you believe it?! I mean it's not unimaginable, it's like that revolutionary man in Rang De Basanti who engraved his immortal poem on the wall in his solitary confinement... and also like many other unyielding fighters who hold their heart's ideals sacred and intact in spite of all trials and tribulations... but still, totally credible as it is, the person's incredible account does not cease to amaze to me!!
...
I really wish we could all do a live adda together now (I actually wish that every day, especially now that so many of you are not around VC any more :-( )... but since a reunion's not possible until... maybe the next ISA?, let's blog adda in the meantime ;-) hope to hear from all of you soon!
Lots of love,
wb
http://www.commondreams.org/view/2009/08/28-1
Thursday, July 23, 2009
As if that was then, and this is now.
On Obama's message to Africans that they "stop blaming colonialism" for their "problems":
Because he has African blood, we were afraid to tell him that it takes more than a couple of brief visits to Africa to understand the continent. We agreed with him that, “Yes, a colonial map that made little sense helped to breed conflict.” But we failed to explain to him that many of the Africans who bring up colonialism do not do so to blame the West. That we have never denied that in Africa corruption exists in endemic proportions; that we mention colonialism for the sake of practicality; that we want the West to understand that a continent brutalized and looted for centuries cannot turn around in 50 years.
We want the United States to look at where it was 50 years after its independence. Were the African slaves free? Could women vote? Had the civil war even happened? Wasn’t corruption rampant in the new, free nation?
But rather than ask this son of Africa to look at history, we let him spit the same Western rhetoric that implies that any African who utters the word “colonialism” wants Africa to wait 200 years for a strong “democratic commitment.” Because Obama is of our blood, we let him continue to push the same flawed, condescending idea that every African is in dire need of water, food and medicine. “And that's why," he said, "my administration has committed $63 billion to meet these challenges.”
We cheered when we heard Obama say that America “will put more resources in the hands of those who need it,” even though we know that most of that aid will end up in the hands of our not-so-democratically-committed African-born sons. We applauded when Obama said, “Wealthy nations must open our doors to goods and services from Africa in a meaningful way,” although it’s no secret that even if the entire world opened its market to Africa, most of us would have nothing to sell.
Ironically, Obama's African blood has made us too blind to see that the heart that pumps it through his veins is American.
For the full article, click here
And a report on Obama's visit to Ghana here.
Because he has African blood, we were afraid to tell him that it takes more than a couple of brief visits to Africa to understand the continent. We agreed with him that, “Yes, a colonial map that made little sense helped to breed conflict.” But we failed to explain to him that many of the Africans who bring up colonialism do not do so to blame the West. That we have never denied that in Africa corruption exists in endemic proportions; that we mention colonialism for the sake of practicality; that we want the West to understand that a continent brutalized and looted for centuries cannot turn around in 50 years.
We want the United States to look at where it was 50 years after its independence. Were the African slaves free? Could women vote? Had the civil war even happened? Wasn’t corruption rampant in the new, free nation?
But rather than ask this son of Africa to look at history, we let him spit the same Western rhetoric that implies that any African who utters the word “colonialism” wants Africa to wait 200 years for a strong “democratic commitment.” Because Obama is of our blood, we let him continue to push the same flawed, condescending idea that every African is in dire need of water, food and medicine. “And that's why," he said, "my administration has committed $63 billion to meet these challenges.”
We cheered when we heard Obama say that America “will put more resources in the hands of those who need it,” even though we know that most of that aid will end up in the hands of our not-so-democratically-committed African-born sons. We applauded when Obama said, “Wealthy nations must open our doors to goods and services from Africa in a meaningful way,” although it’s no secret that even if the entire world opened its market to Africa, most of us would have nothing to sell.
Ironically, Obama's African blood has made us too blind to see that the heart that pumps it through his veins is American.
For the full article, click here
And a report on Obama's visit to Ghana here.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
deaths and remembrances
2 articles i just read:
1. Are Afghan Lives Worth Anything? by Tom Engelhardt
i didn't like the ending, but the juxtaposition IS disturbing
... You'd have to make a desperate effort not to know that Michael Jackson (until recently excoriated by the media) had died, and you'd have to make a similarly desperate effort to know that we've knocked off one wedding party after another these last years in Afghanistan. One of these deaths -- Jackson's -- really has little to do with us; the others are, or should be, our responsibility, part of an endless war the American people have either supported or not stopped from continuing. And yet one is a screaming global headline; the others go unnoticed...
2. Evaluating McNamara by Pranay Gupte
... “Bob is a good man,” Maurice Strong told me, his voice quivering. “Your paper shouldn’t be carrying such criticism of him.” Implicit in what Strong said, of course, was that some sort of apology was due to McNamara.
Neither Susan Tolchin nor I ever issued such an apology. What for? Yes, Bob McNamara had served admirably well as the World Bank’s President, and later as a board member of the Washington Post Company and the Washington-based liberal think tank, the Brookings Institution. Yes, he made contributions to philanthropies. And yes, he came out against George W. Bush’s military adventure in Iraq.
But one’s past is not cleansed so readily. I know that a 93-year-old man has passed away peacefully in his sleep, and I know that it is traditional to view such a man’s life through the prism of kindness.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. Too many of my friends died in Indochina. Too many of them came home without limbs. Their lives never got to be celebrated in the manner in which Robert McNamara was feted in his later years. That’s why, for me at least, he will always be Bomber Bob.
1. Are Afghan Lives Worth Anything? by Tom Engelhardt
i didn't like the ending, but the juxtaposition IS disturbing
... You'd have to make a desperate effort not to know that Michael Jackson (until recently excoriated by the media) had died, and you'd have to make a similarly desperate effort to know that we've knocked off one wedding party after another these last years in Afghanistan. One of these deaths -- Jackson's -- really has little to do with us; the others are, or should be, our responsibility, part of an endless war the American people have either supported or not stopped from continuing. And yet one is a screaming global headline; the others go unnoticed...
2. Evaluating McNamara by Pranay Gupte
... “Bob is a good man,” Maurice Strong told me, his voice quivering. “Your paper shouldn’t be carrying such criticism of him.” Implicit in what Strong said, of course, was that some sort of apology was due to McNamara.
Neither Susan Tolchin nor I ever issued such an apology. What for? Yes, Bob McNamara had served admirably well as the World Bank’s President, and later as a board member of the Washington Post Company and the Washington-based liberal think tank, the Brookings Institution. Yes, he made contributions to philanthropies. And yes, he came out against George W. Bush’s military adventure in Iraq.
But one’s past is not cleansed so readily. I know that a 93-year-old man has passed away peacefully in his sleep, and I know that it is traditional to view such a man’s life through the prism of kindness.
I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. Too many of my friends died in Indochina. Too many of them came home without limbs. Their lives never got to be celebrated in the manner in which Robert McNamara was feted in his later years. That’s why, for me at least, he will always be Bomber Bob.
Friday, June 19, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
a chat w/ Galeano
a drab interviewer but a beauuuuutiful interviewee:
Eduardo Galeano most recently wrote Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone
G: I feel I'm full of people, as you are. Everybody's full of people. Nobody's really alone. We have a crowd inside :-)
I: When you look in the mirror, who do you see?
G: Oh so many people, especially the invisible. And I'm trying to write to recover them because I'm trying to help rebuilding, re-revealing... the very very beautiful rainbow of human conditions. There are so many colors and we are blind to these colors because of the mutilations done by racism, and machismo, and militarism, and elitism, and I dont know how many...
I love the tales he reads from Mirrors and the warm, composed, sagacious way in which he reads... he's such a precious storyteller!!!
"we are all half garbage and half marble... all of us" :-)
--> reminds me of reading in Shariati about God creating humans out of clay and spirit. Strange how stories from different places can resemble each other so closely!! Perhaps it is a sign that all of us can become "contemporaries and compatriots of anyone, anyone, men or women born in very distant places or in very distant times," a manifestation of "the conviction, the faith or the fact that we all form part of the same human conditions, we share fears, hopes, feelings, thoughts, memories..."! ^_^
Eduardo Galeano most recently wrote Mirrors: Stories of Almost Everyone
G: I feel I'm full of people, as you are. Everybody's full of people. Nobody's really alone. We have a crowd inside :-)
I: When you look in the mirror, who do you see?
G: Oh so many people, especially the invisible. And I'm trying to write to recover them because I'm trying to help rebuilding, re-revealing... the very very beautiful rainbow of human conditions. There are so many colors and we are blind to these colors because of the mutilations done by racism, and machismo, and militarism, and elitism, and I dont know how many...
I love the tales he reads from Mirrors and the warm, composed, sagacious way in which he reads... he's such a precious storyteller!!!
"we are all half garbage and half marble... all of us" :-)
--> reminds me of reading in Shariati about God creating humans out of clay and spirit. Strange how stories from different places can resemble each other so closely!! Perhaps it is a sign that all of us can become "contemporaries and compatriots of anyone, anyone, men or women born in very distant places or in very distant times," a manifestation of "the conviction, the faith or the fact that we all form part of the same human conditions, we share fears, hopes, feelings, thoughts, memories..."! ^_^
Sunday, May 3, 2009
a beautiful hymn
so sacredly beautiful:
Some call the Lord 'Ram, Ram', and some 'Khuda'.
koee saevai guseeaa koee alaahi ||1||
Some serve Him as 'Gusain', others as 'Allah'.
kaaran karan kareem ||
He is the Cause of causes, and Generous.
kirapaa dhhaar reheem ||1||
He showers His Grace and Mercy upon us.
koee naavai theerathh koee haj jaae ||
Some pilgrims bathe at sacred shrines, others go on Hajj to Mecca.
koee karai poojaa koee sir nivaae ||2||
Some do devotional worship, whilst others bow their heads in prayer.
koee parrai baedh koee kathaeb ||
Some read the Vedas, and some the Koran.
koee oudtai neel koee supaedh ||3||
Some wear blue robes, and some wear white.
koee kehai thurak koee kehai hi(n)dhoo ||
Some call themselves Muslim, and some call themselves Hindu.
koee baashhai bhisath koee suragi(n)dhoo ||4||
Some yearn for paradise, and others long for heaven.
kahu naanak jin hukam pashhaathaa ||
Says Nanak, one who realizes the Hukam of God's Will,
prabh saahib kaa thin bhaedh jaathaa ||5||
knows the secrets of his Lord Master."
Some call the Lord ' Ram, Ram ', and some ' Khuda ' - Sikh, Hindu, Sufi, Islam, etc
Some call the Lord 'Ram, Ram', and some 'Khuda'.
koee saevai guseeaa koee alaahi ||1||
Some serve Him as 'Gusain', others as 'Allah'.
kaaran karan kareem ||
He is the Cause of causes, and Generous.
kirapaa dhhaar reheem ||1||
He showers His Grace and Mercy upon us.
koee naavai theerathh koee haj jaae ||
Some pilgrims bathe at sacred shrines, others go on Hajj to Mecca.
koee karai poojaa koee sir nivaae ||2||
Some do devotional worship, whilst others bow their heads in prayer.
koee parrai baedh koee kathaeb ||
Some read the Vedas, and some the Koran.
koee oudtai neel koee supaedh ||3||
Some wear blue robes, and some wear white.
koee kehai thurak koee kehai hi(n)dhoo ||
Some call themselves Muslim, and some call themselves Hindu.
koee baashhai bhisath koee suragi(n)dhoo ||4||
Some yearn for paradise, and others long for heaven.
kahu naanak jin hukam pashhaathaa ||
Says Nanak, one who realizes the Hukam of God's Will,
prabh saahib kaa thin bhaedh jaathaa ||5||
knows the secrets of his Lord Master."
Sunday, April 26, 2009
some songs/poems by Mutabaruka...
Naw give up
It no good (to stay in a white man country too long) lol
Dis poem
It no good (to stay in a white man country too long) lol
Dis poem
Thursday, April 23, 2009
"yu studied me an filmed me - remember... remember I hav studied studying..."
A modern slave song
by Benjamin Zephaniah
When yu cosy in yu house
Remember I exist,
When yu drink expensive drink
Remember I exist,
When yu lying on me beach
Remember I exist,
When yu trying to sell me beans to me
Remember I exist.
When yu loving each other to death
Remember I exist,
When yu selling me me music
Remember I exist,
When yu sell dat cotton shirt
Remember I exist,
When yu interviewing me
Remember I exist.
I was de first inventor -- remember
I am black an dread an luv -- remember
I am poor but rich, don't mess -- remember
I made history -- remember.
Yu tried to shut me mouth -- remember
Yu studied me an filmed me -- remember
Yu spending me money -- remember
Yu trying to feget me but remember,
Remember I am trained to not give in,
So don't feget.
Remember I hav studied studying
So don't feget.
Remember where I come from, cause I do.
I won't feget.
Remember yu got me, cause I'll get yu.
I'll mek yu sweat.
by Benjamin Zephaniah
When yu cosy in yu house
Remember I exist,
When yu drink expensive drink
Remember I exist,
When yu lying on me beach
Remember I exist,
When yu trying to sell me beans to me
Remember I exist.
When yu loving each other to death
Remember I exist,
When yu selling me me music
Remember I exist,
When yu sell dat cotton shirt
Remember I exist,
When yu interviewing me
Remember I exist.
I was de first inventor -- remember
I am black an dread an luv -- remember
I am poor but rich, don't mess -- remember
I made history -- remember.
Yu tried to shut me mouth -- remember
Yu studied me an filmed me -- remember
Yu spending me money -- remember
Yu trying to feget me but remember,
Remember I am trained to not give in,
So don't feget.
Remember I hav studied studying
So don't feget.
Remember where I come from, cause I do.
I won't feget.
Remember yu got me, cause I'll get yu.
I'll mek yu sweat.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Bocas Del Tiempo de Eduardo Galeano
TIME PLAYS GAMES
It’s said that once upon a time two friends were admiring a painting. The work of art, by who knows who, was from China, a field of flowers at harvest time.
One of the friends, who knows why?, fixed his faze on a figure in the painting, one of many women with baskets gathering poppies. She wore her hair loose, flowing over her shoulders.
At last she returned his gaze, let her basket fall, held out her arms, and, who knows how, carried him off.
He let himself be taken, who knows where, and with that woman he spent nights and days, who knows how many, until a gust of wind picked him up and returned him to the room where his friend remained standing before the painting.
So brief was that eternity that the friend had not noticed his absence. And neither had he noticed that the woman, one of many women in the painting gathering poppies in their baskets, now wore her hair tied at the back of her neck.
It’s said that once upon a time two friends were admiring a painting. The work of art, by who knows who, was from China, a field of flowers at harvest time.
One of the friends, who knows why?, fixed his faze on a figure in the painting, one of many women with baskets gathering poppies. She wore her hair loose, flowing over her shoulders.
At last she returned his gaze, let her basket fall, held out her arms, and, who knows how, carried him off.
He let himself be taken, who knows where, and with that woman he spent nights and days, who knows how many, until a gust of wind picked him up and returned him to the room where his friend remained standing before the painting.
So brief was that eternity that the friend had not noticed his absence. And neither had he noticed that the woman, one of many women in the painting gathering poppies in their baskets, now wore her hair tied at the back of her neck.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
"Woman, Native, Other" by Trinh T. Minh-ha
Naeem, this is especially for you :-)
"Write your body"
It wrote itself through me. "Women must write through their bodies." Must not let themselves be driven away from their bodies. (...) When armors and defense mechanism are removed, when new awareness of life is brought into previously deadened ares of the body, women begin to experience writing/the world differently. This is exciting and also very scary. For it takes time to be able to tolerate greater aliveness. Hence the recurrence of musts and must-nots. As soon as a barrier is destroyed, another is immediately erected. Call it reform or expansion. Or else, well-defined liberation revolution. Closure and openness, again, are one ongoing process: we do not have bodies, we are our bodies, and we are ourselves while being the world. Who can endure constant open-endedness? Who can keep on living completely exposed? We write - think and feel - (with) our entire bodies rather than only (with) our minds or hearts. It is a perversion to consider thought the product of one specialized organ, the brain, and feeling, that of the heart. The past convention was that we desire because we are incomplete, that we are always searching for that other missing half. More recently, we no longer desire-because, we simply desire, and we desire as we are. "I am a being of desire, therefore a being of words," said Nicole Brossard, "a being who looks for her body and looks for the body of the other: for me, this is the whole history of writing."
We are reading this book by Trinh T. Minh-ha for the Decolonizing seminar and I highly recommend it to everyone. It's so beautifully written. The moment I opened the first page, the very introduction, I already felt her story speaking through my body, my world:
"The story began long ago..."
That's how she started. "That sounds like how my story'd start," my heart beat a little faster.
Ok, that definitely sounds like my village!!! :-)))) and onwards from that page, her stories, her struggles, her theories, her rage, her incisive slashes at white wo/men colonialists... flow, weave, whip, spur, and set words on fire!
Again, highly recommended!! i'd type out the whole book here to share with you if I could :-))
For instance, this is just 1 among many great quotes from it ;-)
It must be odd
to be a minority
he was saying.
I looked around
and didn't see any.
So I said
Yeah
it must be.
- Mitsuye Yamada,
"Looking out" in Camp Notes
"Write your body"
It wrote itself through me. "Women must write through their bodies." Must not let themselves be driven away from their bodies. (...) When armors and defense mechanism are removed, when new awareness of life is brought into previously deadened ares of the body, women begin to experience writing/the world differently. This is exciting and also very scary. For it takes time to be able to tolerate greater aliveness. Hence the recurrence of musts and must-nots. As soon as a barrier is destroyed, another is immediately erected. Call it reform or expansion. Or else, well-defined liberation revolution. Closure and openness, again, are one ongoing process: we do not have bodies, we are our bodies, and we are ourselves while being the world. Who can endure constant open-endedness? Who can keep on living completely exposed? We write - think and feel - (with) our entire bodies rather than only (with) our minds or hearts. It is a perversion to consider thought the product of one specialized organ, the brain, and feeling, that of the heart. The past convention was that we desire because we are incomplete, that we are always searching for that other missing half. More recently, we no longer desire-because, we simply desire, and we desire as we are. "I am a being of desire, therefore a being of words," said Nicole Brossard, "a being who looks for her body and looks for the body of the other: for me, this is the whole history of writing."
We are reading this book by Trinh T. Minh-ha for the Decolonizing seminar and I highly recommend it to everyone. It's so beautifully written. The moment I opened the first page, the very introduction, I already felt her story speaking through my body, my world:
"The story began long ago..."
That's how she started. "That sounds like how my story'd start," my heart beat a little faster.
"... In a remote village, people have decided to get together to discuss certain matters of capital importance to the well-being of their community. A meeting is thus fixed for a definite date at the marketplace at nightfall. On the day and at the time agreed, each member eats, washes him/herself, and arrives only when s/he is ready. Things proceed smoothly as usual, and the discussion does not have to begin at a precise time, since it does not break in on daily life but slips naturally into it. A mother continues to bathe her child amidst the group; two men go on playing a game they have started; a woman finishes braiding another woman 's hair. These activities do not prevent their listening or intervening when necessary. Never does one open discussion by coming right to the heart of the matter. For the heart of the matter is always somewhere else than where it is supposed to be. To allow it to emerge, people approach it indirectly by letting it come when it is ready to come. There is no need for a linear progression which gives the comforting illusion that one knows where one goes..."
Ok, that definitely sounds like my village!!! :-)))) and onwards from that page, her stories, her struggles, her theories, her rage, her incisive slashes at white wo/men colonialists... flow, weave, whip, spur, and set words on fire!
Again, highly recommended!! i'd type out the whole book here to share with you if I could :-))
For instance, this is just 1 among many great quotes from it ;-)
It must be odd
to be a minority
he was saying.
I looked around
and didn't see any.
So I said
Yeah
it must be.
- Mitsuye Yamada,
"Looking out" in Camp Notes
Thursday, March 26, 2009
It's just impossible :-)
It's impossible- tell the sun to leave the sky
it's just impossible
It's impossible- ask a baby not to cry
it's just impossible
Can I hold you closer to me
and not feel you goin' through me?
Split the second that I never think of you?
oh, how impossible
Can the ocean keep from rushing to the shore?
it's just impossible
If I had you could I ever want for more?
it's just impossible
And tomorrow should you ask me for the world somehow I'd get it
I would sell my very soul and not regret it
for to live without your love is just impossible
Oh impossible
impossible
immmmmpossible
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
The (im)possibility of a symmetrical comeback?
Wendy’s, Cannibals, Modernity, and the Boy from Ghana
(article by Pius Adesanmi)
I have no idea that so recently Wendy's had such an abominable commercial, but then again, i shouldn't be surprised at this manifestation of a colonial discourse that is much more pervasive and deep-seatedly archived than Wendy's. Along with this stale surprise - yes, stale is the word -, I share the exasperation of having all the cards so thoroughly dealt against us! What do you do when "all the answers that could've been given have been devoured by the question"? I'm talking about the difficulty of personal encounters (be it with friends, classmates, genuine inquirers, etc.), but of course, this preemptive-gagging situation is ubiquitously beyond the personal. What do you do when what you say will inevitably be reduced to being "too emotional," "resentful," "bitter," "extreme," "one of those (nuts)"... while what is being said/asked/assumed on the other side is universally backed up by History, by Reason, by "Humanity"?! Not that this suffocating asymmetry will/can stop you from expressing whatever you want to/need to/must/can't help but express, but i just wonder, how do you shut the nonsense up effectively? How do you block - at least temporarily, at least in your presence, at least from your bleeding ears - the stream of obscenities that have been invading, killing, pillaging our worlds since conquests? How do you respond ethically when you can't respond symmetrically (yet?)? Rage? Calm? Silence? Maybe your body reacts before you do. Maybe you don't have that much control no matter how much you try to strategize about it. I know there's no one answer, no formula, no easy this-is-what-you-need-to-do, and perhaps no adequate countering weapons to hold beforehand... I just wanted to hear from you, my dearest friends, mis compañeros y compañeras, about your experiences/thoughts/feelings..... What do you do when you are asked "why do (you) the tribesmen want to eat (us) the innocent man"?
(article by Pius Adesanmi)
"We were about to place bets when his eight-year-old son stormed out of his bedroom screaming: “dad, turn on the Tee Vee!” My friend reached for the remote control and flicked on the television. Wendy’s new commercial was on. The lad asked: “Dad, why do the tribesmen want to eat that innocent man?” A hush fell on us. The palm wine turned stale in my mouth. My friend looked at me in exasperation. I looked at him in exasperation. Oro p’esi je! All the answers one could have given the boy have been devoured by the question, as the Yoruba would exclaim in circumstances such as this. How do you explain the discursive politics of Wendy’s new commercial to an eight-year old?
.....
“How do you do that when the cards are so thoroughly dealt against us”, my friend ventured. He continued: “We don’t even have the pedagogical resources to counter Wendy’s narrative at age-appropriate levels. Take the case of your countryman, Chinua Achebe. Things Fall Apart is a great material. Do we have abridged, Children’s versions of that great African book? If my son had encountered masquerades in age-appropriate versions of Things Fall Apart, perhaps his question today would have been: Dad, why is Wendy’s making those masquerades look bad?”"
I have no idea that so recently Wendy's had such an abominable commercial, but then again, i shouldn't be surprised at this manifestation of a colonial discourse that is much more pervasive and deep-seatedly archived than Wendy's. Along with this stale surprise - yes, stale is the word -, I share the exasperation of having all the cards so thoroughly dealt against us! What do you do when "all the answers that could've been given have been devoured by the question"? I'm talking about the difficulty of personal encounters (be it with friends, classmates, genuine inquirers, etc.), but of course, this preemptive-gagging situation is ubiquitously beyond the personal. What do you do when what you say will inevitably be reduced to being "too emotional," "resentful," "bitter," "extreme," "one of those (nuts)"... while what is being said/asked/assumed on the other side is universally backed up by History, by Reason, by "Humanity"?! Not that this suffocating asymmetry will/can stop you from expressing whatever you want to/need to/must/can't help but express, but i just wonder, how do you shut the nonsense up effectively? How do you block - at least temporarily, at least in your presence, at least from your bleeding ears - the stream of obscenities that have been invading, killing, pillaging our worlds since conquests? How do you respond ethically when you can't respond symmetrically (yet?)? Rage? Calm? Silence? Maybe your body reacts before you do. Maybe you don't have that much control no matter how much you try to strategize about it. I know there's no one answer, no formula, no easy this-is-what-you-need-to-do, and perhaps no adequate countering weapons to hold beforehand... I just wanted to hear from you, my dearest friends, mis compañeros y compañeras, about your experiences/thoughts/feelings..... What do you do when you are asked "why do (you) the tribesmen want to eat (us) the innocent man"?
Friday, March 13, 2009
Mourning
Another deeply thoughtful article by Wandia Njoya:
AFRICA MUST RECONCILE WITH HERSELF, WEEP FOR HERSELF
(i'm only quoting here parts of it)
"Black South Africans had barely heaved a sigh of relief from the trauma of apartheid when Archbishop Desmond Tutu led them to accomplish the super human feat of listening to the confessions of gruesome acts committed against their kith and kin. The TV pictures of Archbishop Tutu's lowering his head as he was overcome by grief remain engraved in my mind, for they represent the profound horror and suffering of black South Africans which could not be expressed through words; only through tears. However, as black South Africans endured this painful grieving process, they were also asked to swallow the bitter pill of amnesty and of no promise of reparations or wealth re-distribution. A casual observer can therefore recognize that South Africa is upheld as the model which the rest of Africa is supposed to emulate; which is to have whites confess their sins before their black victims, pay no reparations or suffer imprisonment, while God damn the Africans as their open wounds fester, leading them to explode against women, children, neighboring ethnic groups, fellow citizens, and in this case, fellow Africans."
"All over Africa, we were and still are flooded with stories about reconciliation between blacks and whites, but never between blacks themselves... The message from this imbalance to Africans is simple: crimes committed against us by each other are normal and do not deserve to be addressed through meticulous court trials, reconciliation commissions and national healing. The only time we are expected to go through these processes is when whites are the perpetrators of the injustice. Thus, Africans are expected to spend time understanding the historical background and institutional structures that led Europeans to commit crimes against us, but the same commitment is not demanded of them when the crimes are committed by our fellow Africans."
"It is high time we Africans sat down and honestly discussed how the human identities of class, race, gender, ethnicity and nationality within Africa have been poisoned by racism. And we must do this within closed doors of our countries and our languages, away from the scrutinizing eye of Western donors and scholars. We must do it for ourselves and among ourselves, damning whether it meets the principles of human rights charters or the mildly enlightening but un-replicable theories such as Marxism and feminism. It is unrealistic and unfair for us to spend so much energy reconciling with and forgiving Europe for slavery, colonialism and apartheid, while almost none on acknowledging, explaining and forgiving the injuries we inflicted on each other across individual, gender, class, ethnic and national boundaries. Likewise, it is absurd that Euro-America culturally and politically imposes a policy of "forgive and forget" on us. How can Euro-America be forgiven when it has not apologized, and how can it claim to have repented the sins of racist exploitation if it has not abandoned the initial errant and exploitative behavior? Moreover, Euro-American continually protects its settlers and post-apartheid communities in Africa, but remains aloof when we unleash our frustrations on each other or when politicians and criminals inflict suffering on their fellow Africans in the name of history or "African standards."
Africa must find the time to mourn; regularly. It makes little sense to celebrate liberation without remembering and mourning the millions of victims who lost their lives under brutality or in the struggle. Africa is further prevented from being emotionally and psychically connected to our history by the philanthropists and do-gooders who shed crocodile, and maybe sincere, tears on our behalf. Every time Madonna, Bono, Angelina Jolie and ilk adopt children, hold concerts, produce documentaries and visit the G8 on our behalf, they effectively impose another barrier between Africans and their past. The inherent message of philanthropy is that Europeans know our pain better than we - the people who bear it - do, and therefore they are best placed to weep for us. Meanwhile, when Africans mourn apartheid, racism, colonialism and slavery, we are told to "get over it" and not to "dwell on the past" that academics separate from the present using the latest "post" theory. And the more we are distanced from our history, the less likely we are to learn from it."
Who's mourning for whom? Who can mourn (what) profusely and who is barred from even uttering it? Do supposedly good-doing efforts like Amnesty, Truth and Reconciliation Commission, philanthropy... shed tears with us or do they effectively gag us from mourning for ourselves, mourning with each other, mourning "with our own voice, in our own words, and in our own languages"? Njoya's article's profoundly affected me with these questions...
AFRICA MUST RECONCILE WITH HERSELF, WEEP FOR HERSELF
(i'm only quoting here parts of it)
"Black South Africans had barely heaved a sigh of relief from the trauma of apartheid when Archbishop Desmond Tutu led them to accomplish the super human feat of listening to the confessions of gruesome acts committed against their kith and kin. The TV pictures of Archbishop Tutu's lowering his head as he was overcome by grief remain engraved in my mind, for they represent the profound horror and suffering of black South Africans which could not be expressed through words; only through tears. However, as black South Africans endured this painful grieving process, they were also asked to swallow the bitter pill of amnesty and of no promise of reparations or wealth re-distribution. A casual observer can therefore recognize that South Africa is upheld as the model which the rest of Africa is supposed to emulate; which is to have whites confess their sins before their black victims, pay no reparations or suffer imprisonment, while God damn the Africans as their open wounds fester, leading them to explode against women, children, neighboring ethnic groups, fellow citizens, and in this case, fellow Africans."
"All over Africa, we were and still are flooded with stories about reconciliation between blacks and whites, but never between blacks themselves... The message from this imbalance to Africans is simple: crimes committed against us by each other are normal and do not deserve to be addressed through meticulous court trials, reconciliation commissions and national healing. The only time we are expected to go through these processes is when whites are the perpetrators of the injustice. Thus, Africans are expected to spend time understanding the historical background and institutional structures that led Europeans to commit crimes against us, but the same commitment is not demanded of them when the crimes are committed by our fellow Africans."
"It is high time we Africans sat down and honestly discussed how the human identities of class, race, gender, ethnicity and nationality within Africa have been poisoned by racism. And we must do this within closed doors of our countries and our languages, away from the scrutinizing eye of Western donors and scholars. We must do it for ourselves and among ourselves, damning whether it meets the principles of human rights charters or the mildly enlightening but un-replicable theories such as Marxism and feminism. It is unrealistic and unfair for us to spend so much energy reconciling with and forgiving Europe for slavery, colonialism and apartheid, while almost none on acknowledging, explaining and forgiving the injuries we inflicted on each other across individual, gender, class, ethnic and national boundaries. Likewise, it is absurd that Euro-America culturally and politically imposes a policy of "forgive and forget" on us. How can Euro-America be forgiven when it has not apologized, and how can it claim to have repented the sins of racist exploitation if it has not abandoned the initial errant and exploitative behavior? Moreover, Euro-American continually protects its settlers and post-apartheid communities in Africa, but remains aloof when we unleash our frustrations on each other or when politicians and criminals inflict suffering on their fellow Africans in the name of history or "African standards."
Africa must find the time to mourn; regularly. It makes little sense to celebrate liberation without remembering and mourning the millions of victims who lost their lives under brutality or in the struggle. Africa is further prevented from being emotionally and psychically connected to our history by the philanthropists and do-gooders who shed crocodile, and maybe sincere, tears on our behalf. Every time Madonna, Bono, Angelina Jolie and ilk adopt children, hold concerts, produce documentaries and visit the G8 on our behalf, they effectively impose another barrier between Africans and their past. The inherent message of philanthropy is that Europeans know our pain better than we - the people who bear it - do, and therefore they are best placed to weep for us. Meanwhile, when Africans mourn apartheid, racism, colonialism and slavery, we are told to "get over it" and not to "dwell on the past" that academics separate from the present using the latest "post" theory. And the more we are distanced from our history, the less likely we are to learn from it."
Who's mourning for whom? Who can mourn (what) profusely and who is barred from even uttering it? Do supposedly good-doing efforts like Amnesty, Truth and Reconciliation Commission, philanthropy... shed tears with us or do they effectively gag us from mourning for ourselves, mourning with each other, mourning "with our own voice, in our own words, and in our own languages"? Njoya's article's profoundly affected me with these questions...
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
The Audacity...
TO BE HUMAN
what do you think about the issues that Wandia Njoya is talking about?
"...
In the meantime, those of us with TV's tune in to Churchill every Thursday night to laugh at the jokes about stereotypes of the different Kenyan ethnic groups. No one seems to realize that during the elections, we used the same, same stereotypes, but at that time we were not laughing. We were serious. We killed Luos because they were flamboyant. We killed Kalenjins because they were violent. We killed Kambas because they were traitors. We killed Kisiis and Luhyas whom we thought should have known better than live in districts that are not their own. We killed Kikuyus because they are money-hungry thieves who stole an election. And Kikuyus retorted that everyone else but them was lazy and jealous because Kikuyus are supposedly the only Kenyans who work hard. And that "everyone else" - symbolized by the militia Group 41 - responded by hoping to rally a whole country to exterminate one ethnic group.
...
We have believed the politicians who lie to us and blackmail us to believe that our only hope for survival is tribal cocoons. They have killed our hope to be completely human, to be more than a potential ballot on election day or a potential militia to protect their power and wealth. And once we no longer know that we are human, it doesn't matter whether we live or die. We can kill without a blink and not be moved by the blood we spill. And we expect to die by deluding ourselves that injustice is fate or God's will.
..."
what do you think about the issues that Wandia Njoya is talking about?
"...
In the meantime, those of us with TV's tune in to Churchill every Thursday night to laugh at the jokes about stereotypes of the different Kenyan ethnic groups. No one seems to realize that during the elections, we used the same, same stereotypes, but at that time we were not laughing. We were serious. We killed Luos because they were flamboyant. We killed Kalenjins because they were violent. We killed Kambas because they were traitors. We killed Kisiis and Luhyas whom we thought should have known better than live in districts that are not their own. We killed Kikuyus because they are money-hungry thieves who stole an election. And Kikuyus retorted that everyone else but them was lazy and jealous because Kikuyus are supposedly the only Kenyans who work hard. And that "everyone else" - symbolized by the militia Group 41 - responded by hoping to rally a whole country to exterminate one ethnic group.
...
We have believed the politicians who lie to us and blackmail us to believe that our only hope for survival is tribal cocoons. They have killed our hope to be completely human, to be more than a potential ballot on election day or a potential militia to protect their power and wealth. And once we no longer know that we are human, it doesn't matter whether we live or die. We can kill without a blink and not be moved by the blood we spill. And we expect to die by deluding ourselves that injustice is fate or God's will.
..."
Friday, March 6, 2009
The New School
Is the school a bigger bomb than the bomb?
This is a powerful passage from Cheikh Hamidou Kane's Ambiguous Adventure:
"For the newcomers did not know only how to fight. They were strange people. If they knew how to kill with effectiveness, they also knew how to cure, with the same art. Where they had brought disorder, they established a new order. They destroyed and they constructed. On the black continent it began to be understood that their true power lay not in the cannons of the first morning, but rather in what followed the cannons.
Thus, behind the gunboats, the clear gaze of the Most Royal Lady of the Diallobé had seen the new school.
The new school shares at the same time the characteristics of cannon and of magnet. From the cannon it draws its efficacy as an arm of combat. Better than the cannon, it makes conquest permanent. The cannon compels the body, the school bewitches the soul. Where the cannon has made a pit of ashes and of death, in the sticky mold of which men would not have rebounded from the ruins, the new school establishes peace. The morning of rebirth will be a morning of benediction through the appeasing virtue of the new school.
From the magnet, the school takes its radiating force. It is bound up with a new order, as a magnetic stone is bound up with a field. The upheaval of the fire of man within this new order is similar to the overturn of certain physical laws in a magnetic field. Men are seen to be composing themselves, conquered, along the lines of invisible and imperious forces. Disorder is organized, rebellion is appeased, the mornings of resentment resound with songs of a universal thanksgiving."
This is a powerful passage from Cheikh Hamidou Kane's Ambiguous Adventure:
"For the newcomers did not know only how to fight. They were strange people. If they knew how to kill with effectiveness, they also knew how to cure, with the same art. Where they had brought disorder, they established a new order. They destroyed and they constructed. On the black continent it began to be understood that their true power lay not in the cannons of the first morning, but rather in what followed the cannons.
Thus, behind the gunboats, the clear gaze of the Most Royal Lady of the Diallobé had seen the new school.
The new school shares at the same time the characteristics of cannon and of magnet. From the cannon it draws its efficacy as an arm of combat. Better than the cannon, it makes conquest permanent. The cannon compels the body, the school bewitches the soul. Where the cannon has made a pit of ashes and of death, in the sticky mold of which men would not have rebounded from the ruins, the new school establishes peace. The morning of rebirth will be a morning of benediction through the appeasing virtue of the new school.
From the magnet, the school takes its radiating force. It is bound up with a new order, as a magnetic stone is bound up with a field. The upheaval of the fire of man within this new order is similar to the overturn of certain physical laws in a magnetic field. Men are seen to be composing themselves, conquered, along the lines of invisible and imperious forces. Disorder is organized, rebellion is appeased, the mornings of resentment resound with songs of a universal thanksgiving."
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