Just an Old Iraqi Song...

Was browsing through youtube and found this video of Iraqi art and artists accompanied by an old traditional Iraqi song. I feel so homesick...




Song's name : Khala Shako
Singer : Macadai Nahhas.

A Barefoot Dance...

You know something ? I love dancing...and am told am a good one too. And ONE of the reasons, I find the current puppet regime in Iraq not only corrupt but borrrrrrrrrrrring is because they have banned dancing places. Dancing is no longer allowed in Baghdad...except in the Green Zone, of course --- leisure therapy for the poor worn out brave boys and girls from the Wild West.

I remember the good old days in Baghdad, we could dance...You name it we danced it. No one thought we were "loose" because we danced...and boy did we swing.

And please don't bore me with your usual leftist crap about "only the bourgeoisie was allowed to dance". Even the riff raf danced...but today, they channel their energies differently, they kill instead - because the Ayatoilets from Qum declared dancing to be Haram. Dancing is haram but drilling, raping, torturing and murdering people is not.

Sod them, I love dancing -- and I have always said it there are two ways I'd like to go - either in bed or on the dance floor.

Okay, I retract - not in bed... that would be quite confusing for the meaningful other, and would very likely trigger off a deep existential angst summed up in one sentence -- the fine line between coming and going.

Away from such macabre, morbid thoughts. Damn they follow me everywhere. I wonder why...

Anyways, I was listening to this radio station that plays oldies. I love oldies. Maybe because am getting old myself...kind of a quick maturing...sod them, I don't care. We're all getting there...sooner than later.

So I was listening to this station and they played that song - a song that took me back to when I was 4 years old.

I remember my parents taking me on a cruise trip...

I was bored with adults, but being rocked by the sea and waiting for mermaids to appear would fend off my boredom...and there was not much to do for kids on this cruising ship, except dress up in dentelle and sit on high cushions, otherwise I could not reach my fork and knife, keep my elbows off the table and wait for dinner to be served...I can't remember the food, it must have been very bland.

But there is one thing I will never forget from that trip - a memory that vividly comes back to me when I hear that song...

Dad tucked me in bed and said :

- Layla - don't you move and you go to sleep now"
- Yes daddy.
- Yalla good night my good girl.
- Yes daddy.

Could not sleep...

I heard their voices and laughter coming from the upper deck...there was a gala dinner that night...and they played some music. It sounded as if they were all having some real fun and here I was cooped up in this claustrophobic cabin, forcing myself to be a good girl...

I got restless, and the mermaids did not show up either...I slipped out of my bunker bed, and tipped toed, all the way up to the upper deck. I remember I had a pink nightie with millions of little flowers adorning it...my hair was a mess, all disheveled and I was barefoot...

As I climbed the narrow stairs, the music and the laughter got louder, so did my heart beat...I peeped through the main door and saw everything glittering and whirling...I pushed the door open and discreetly walked in the gala room...making sure to remain unnoticed...I reached the band. They had brass instruments shining like the sun and I stood behind one of those huge loudspeakers, trying to remain incognito...

A man spotted me...He was the captain of the ship. He must have been around 40 or more...He looked very handsome in his navy blue suit and shiny silver buttons, scintillating like stars, and his elegantly placed navy cap...I remember he had a bit of grey hair on the sides...

He approached me and put out his hand, bending forward to reach my tiny height...

" Mademoiselle, would you like to dance ? "

And he took me by my tiny hand and the band played that song...and that was my first twist. I twisted away, barefoot, in my pink nightie with a captain for a chaperon...It was heavenly...

My mother spotted me and I could hear her voice going hysterical "c'est ma fille, c'est ma fille..."

She rushed towards me followed by my father...The captain said "allow us to finish this dance, please.". And we did...

More people gathered to watch this little Iraqi girl dancing barefoot in her nightie...I got a nice series of applause, the captain kissed my hand and said
" good night mademoiselle "

Mother pulled me aside and started reprimanding me -- "how dare you ?" ...father joined "did I not tell you not to move ?!"

I looked up at them and replied with indifference "I did not move...my legs took me there...I had nothing to do with it..."

"And in a nightie and barefoot ? What will people think ?"

I shrugged and thought to myself in not so many words - sod them, I had the best chaperon on board...

I was tucked in bed again, this time they locked the door...but I cared not, I saw mermaids, from my cabin window...twisting in the water, dancing around in joy...

Painting: Iraqi artist, Shakir Al-Alousi.

A Certain Something - A Je ne sais Quoi...

I was talking to a friend the other day, this friend is NOT an Iraqi, nor an Arab. But he/she knows Iraq and the Iraqis quite well...the real ones, that is.

And this friend told me, textually :

- It is very hard to know Iraqis and not love them - they are quite special..."
- Why so ? I enquired...
- I don't know...it is something about you, people...about Iraq...

What is this something ?

I am not sure. I don't know...

I am not the type that toots her own horn either...
I too, have asked myself that question - what is this something that this friend constantly alludes to ?

What is this something that -- despite my fatigue, my melancholy, my loss, my sadness...pushes me to go on ? Pushes me to go on -- towards her, Her. To HER ?

To continue...regardless...

Surely am not from the right sex nor from the right sect and by today's standards, am not even from the right race...my political inclinations if at all, dont nominate me for best performer of the year...

Yet, like a moth that has burned itself a thousands times...I keep going back...

A certain something, a je ne sais quoi...beyond your regular patriotism, beyond love of country, beyond shared, common memories, beyond home, beyond mother tongue....beyond all of that...

What is it ?

I try to put myself in my friend's shoes, who is not an Iraqi...and I ask myself that same question...

What is it ?

And the reply I always get is always the same -- like a broken record, like a picture that refuses to fade away, like an ancient, immemorial statue from bygone days...

And I keep coming back -- like an unwanted visitor, like a lover stealing a few glimpses in the night...

It must be a certain something...a certain, Je ne sais quoi.

Music : Elham Al-Madfai - Khuttar/Visitors

Painting: Iraqi artist, Ahmed Al-Karkhee.

Speaking in Tongues...

I don't understand what this song is all about -- but I just have a feeling the lyrics are from the heart. I can tell from the voice...

The Remedy.

Writing the other post has made me feel violently, repulsively ill, leaving a foul taste in my mouth...an acrid, bitter taste...

I need, desperately need to counteract, this feeling that is overwhelming me...I absolutely need to counteract this historical infamy, this corrupt immorality, this spiritual desolation and bankruptcy with something else...

This something else is my antidote, the antidote to the poison, this something else is my remedy and my hope.

So I will keep on listening to the lyrics from the song below, lyrics inspired from the Love quatrains of Mawlana Jalal Din Al-Rumi until this foul pungent taste subsides...That will be my healing balm, my sweet healing balm...

Painting : Iraqi artist, Abdul Hussain Twaij

Critiques...

Not a good idea to check your mail before going to sleep...

I have not logged on all day, thought "I'll just check my mail...". Wrong. Bad, bad move.

And I received today, "Hey, did you see what so and so said about your writing?" " I saw your post on such and such website, check the comments..." so on and so forth...

And naturally since one, at least I am, inquisitive by nature, I did go and read...which is a rare occurrence, because as a rule of thumb I make it a point to avoid reading whatever is said about my writings and/or me.

Yawns and yawns so more.

Frankly, if I am to take into consideration every single critique that addresses me....
If I am to take into account every single "demand" and "request" from every single reader that comes across my blog...

I will then have to stop writing. Simply put. Can't please everyone here. And am not your Geisha blogger either.

So, moral of the story in one wise sentence I heard some time ago...

Opinions are like assholes - everybody's got one.

Good night.

Message in a Bottle...

I was not sure where to write, here or on my blue blog...I opted for the security of Black, for the safety of Darkness... Irrationally so, but I feel more safe surrounded by the black wallpaper on my screen...

It is very cold this evening...a chilling wind is blowing.

I stare through my kitchen window, my tiny kitchen which has become my refuge from the world...maybe because a kitchen reminds me of nourishment, the sharing of food, the noise and smell of something cooking, a human hand that chops, peels, stirs...maybe it reminds me of gatherings around a table...maybe my kitchen has become the most habitable place, the most habitable place where I am forced to go to...to feed myself, to drink, eat...maybe my kitchen reminds me of Life...maybe my kitchen reminds me that I am still alive...

I stare through my kitchen window. My sight is obstructed by a block of cement, of bricks, colorless and dull...Right at the far end corner, I can see a palm tree swaying in the cold wind, holding on...

I stare through my kitchen window and sentences play themselves in my mind...I try blotting them out, but they are like dancing shadows on the cement brick wall facing me...They write themselves on the wall -- like graffiti, like banners, like sign posts in phosphorescent red...

I read them out loud.

" Bet you're butt ugly...dirty and filthy...like all Iraqi Christians."
" So you are a Sunni Muslim man pretending to be a woman. We will get you."
" Don't worry, am sure the Abu Ghraib (tortured) prisoners will still be able to fuck you after your 40 years of abstinence..."
" Layla, you know where your heart is don't you ? Near your asshole..."
" So you are the famous Iraqi whore. We need a whore around, am sure you will do fine..."
" Your bones will be crushed, your skull broken, we will smash your body to pieces..."
" One bullet to your head and you are finished..."
" Raped till death and no one will know and no one will care"
" Your end is like Saddam's. You will be hanged and how sweet that will be..."
" A rope around your neck..."
" You have transgressed the lines against your masters...you will pay."
" I will have the pleasure of pissing on your grave..."
" I sure hope another one breaks out where you're at, I enjoyed killing you guys, it was fun..."

And the shadows keep dancing on that wall...Their vowels are made of insults, their music made of slander and their cowardly spines made of murderous threats...They whirl and bend on the wall facing me, like acrobats of the night...of darkness.

I watch them dance through my kitchen window, it is cold out there...

I stare through my kitchen window and see rain drying, leaving marks of mud, like lone letters from the alphabet...I try reading them, like some clairvoyant reading the coffee mud, left at the bottom of a cup...I try reading them, maybe a name will be revealed, some one's name, any one's name...

I stare through my kitchen window...The radio is on. A warm voice with a familiar accent speaks through...breaking the lonely stillness, the lonely lull...A familiar accent that reminds me of love and firmly rooted, swaying palm trees...

She says : "I am ill, I don't even dare utter a sound...that would mean more expenses, doctor's fees...we need this money, my husband and kids are more important...so I carry my illness in silence..."

Another familiar accent creeps through: " I lost my home, my parents, my siblings, I was tracked like an animal...I had to flee..."

And another one : " My husband and father, they disappeared...they threatened to rape and kill me. Now am here...I am alone...I have no one but God..."

And another one : " We have never had it so bad...If I return, they will just kill me...so simple...so easy..."

And another one : " Even here, I still feel terrified...you know how they do things to us Iraqis...It is so easy for them...they know we have no support..."

And a few more familiar accent added themselves and they all came and inhabited my kitchen...We gathered around my table, like ghosts. Us, and Them dancing on the wall across my window...

A male voice reporting broke through...

"It is a catastrophe, a human catastrophe. Someone should tell the world. Iraqi women are in the abyss..."

And he continued...

" According to the latest reports -- 70% inside and outside the country live under the line of poverty. 67 % of the girls are illiterate, their families stopped sending them to school. Over 2'000 and that is the official figure for 2008, are reported missing and no one knows where they are. Iraqi women have been tortured, raped and murdered by militias and the occupation. Iraqi women are subjected to threats, rape, killings - an unprecedented violence that is on the rise...someone should tell the world, someone should tell the world..."

And his voice faded away...

I stare through my kitchen window, the chairs are empty now...they all departed. I see their shadows still dancing in front of me on that colorless wall...waving their graffiti with scorn...

I stare through my kitchen window and am still trying to read the name of someone, anyone...in the muddy marks left by the rain.

Painting: Iraqi artist, Ziad Bakury

Rock Yourself to Sleep...

I like the Eagles. Two of my favorites are Hotel California and How Long...

Whenever I listen to How Long and watch the video, I imagine a bunch of "good hearted" cowboys singing this rock/folk/country song to Iraqi women -- widows who live in trailers and wives, sisters and mothers of innocent prisoners in detention camps.

See, the Wild West exports trailers and jammed packed county jails, just like the good ol'days back home...Heee Haaa.

Some Wild West Saloon music for the Iraqi Women...The abandoned, deserted Iraqi Women.

If you watch the video closely and listen carefully to the lyrics, you will know what am talking about...

Or maybe it is just another wild imagination of mine. Most likely.

On " Objectivity "

Someone told me the other day, that I needed to be more "objective" about Iraq...
She added, in her typical Western analytical mind, her mind geared towards "enquiry and impartiality", that "objectivity" would help me assess the situation better...

She was trying to make me understand -- my situation better...see it from a different perspective, a perspective that would neatly fit into her mind...or into whatever her mind can absorb, a rational empirical mind...

"Let us put feelings aside", she said...she was the detached ,impartial observer of our tragedy...of our carnage...and she wanted me to understand. Understand what ?

My cells do not need to understand, they know...my eyes do not need to understand, they saw, my ears do not need to understand, they heard...Understand what ?

That the color of blood is red ? That history has been erased and turned into ashes and modern ruins ? What is there to understand ?

What is there to understand about bulging bellies and bulging eyes wasting away in radioactive toxicity ? What is there to understand about mass graves that are still being unearthed as I type...what is there to understand about a society torn apart, living behind tall walls and ghettoes...

What is there to understand ?

What is there to understand about half a million orphans living in the streets of Baghdad or 5 million orphans scrounging for shelter and food, or millions of widows waiting for death ? What is there to understand ?

One grave digger said " business is down, but it is still business...as usual."
They asked him if his job gave him the blues...
He replied " not at all, I feel secure and peaceful with the dead..."

Understand that, if you can -- in your "objective", "impartial" minds...

You never lived in a tent, nor do you go begging for residency permits to be renewed...you do not hide your accent, nor your origins, you do not need to pretend that you are not here, nor there... Now, that is objective.

And the sound of bombs and endless stories of absent ones are not your daily music either...and lost relatives in ghost prisons are not part of your scenery...and you do not safely tuck away pictures of what used to be your home and you don't ask a traveller to discreetly take pictures of it so you will never forget...so it can stay in your "objective" minds...

When they call you and ask you "do you need anything from here" you do not say " send me some earth in a plastic bag, so I can smell it again..."

How can a nose be objective and impartial ?

But please remain impartial...so the Westerner can understand...

Because his mind is a pigeon hole, where everything is classified by order...by alphabetical lists, like a deck of cards, the famous deck of cards...ABCDEFG...1234567...process orders...what comes first....what comes last...the wonders of the enquiry mind. Microscopic lenses dissecting human lives...for the noble aim of Objectivity.

Like a neatly framed painting...order...make order out this chaos if you can...

Make order of this collapsed tower, this collapsed fortress, make order...so we can all become so objective and understand...understand what the mind can no longer comprehend...

You do not need order, I need order...I need order, they need order...we need orderly grounds, because we are all hanging there by a thread and the profound abyss is below us...we need order, not you.

That is why Iraqis preferred daily mantra is "security, security...we don't want food, we don't want water, we don't want electricity, just give us security..."

And who made them so insecure ? Who took away order from them ? Who is it that objectively studied them in order to break and destroy them ?

Who else, but that same mind that enquires into objectivity...

And if it only stopped here...

Not only that, but you are distrusted, disbelieved, and accused of exaggerations...

The impartial mind does not believe you...Does not want to believe you. Because your language has changed, you speak another language...a language he does not understand...a language he created but which he cannot master...

So you find yourself in a position where you need to prove with "facts" what this objective mind created in your life, with deeds...

It becomes incumbent upon you to bring proof and evidence of the chaos they created...of the destruction they wrecked...

And you find yourself in a malicious bind, a bind that you did not even ask for...a bit like an innocent prisoner bound by chains and not knowing if he will ever exit this dark dungeon... you too, become a prisoner of this discourse, of this "objective" mind...

You find yourself in a corner, where they placed you. Just like an innocent prisoner trying to remember facts to tell to the judge, if he ever sees one...facts like numbers, dates and names....the prisoner makes a list in his head, alphabetical and numerical lists in order...in a perfect order...

I walk around carrying a pad and a pencil. I need to give proof, to back up my claims, my reality. I have to jot down names and dates, numbers in a morgue, precise information backed by "concrete solid evidence", so I can appease the objective mind...I become a prisoner of the discourse. Their discourse.

I even feel it when I write on this blog...

Could you be more specific ? Can you explain why ? You need to provide evidence. Can you change your style ? You need some editing. Provide links. Back your claims. Change your language. The wording in English is not correct. Do you need to use these foul sentences ? This makes no sense. This is not politically correct. That is insulting. Why bring this up now ? This is not the time for it. You are lacking objectivity. You are generalizing. It did not happen that way. This is pure propaganda. You are lying...

Mince your words Woman, turn them around, change their colorings, give them new dimensions, weigh them, objectify them just like they objectify you and them, so they can understand in their objective minds...the intent, extent and depth of their own indifference and destructiveness...

Turn your inner and outer world,
banish the desert storms and the whirlwinds,
dam the rivers
stop the currents
erase the feelings with a rubber, blank them out,
become the zombie of PTSD
appeal to them, so they can pity you.
this is what they want to hear, need to hear...
their flip side is the Savior...
the objective savior
who needs to understand before he saves...
before he saves you, from himself...

Yet at the same time, control yourself, control your feelings and emotions because the objective mind does not accept what drops out from his frame...what is not aligned in with his thoughts...

Rise above it all and become the Nietzchean superman and superwoman...become God like, but don't show your Godliness because the objective mind cannot take anything that is not empirically proven...

So do not label them but label yourself...they need the labels, after all they labelled you. Labelled you and given you a code bar too. Digital prints and eye scans. Biometric measures and numbered you. Fit the label...so they can understand, objectively understand.

Sidestep your pain, your sleepless nights, your grief, your loss, your confusion, your isolation, your absent ones, sidestep your heart...and fit the label.

Listen well and explain calmly, don't get over excited, don't bring up the past, focus on the here and now, on the future...objectively.

Tear it away...uproot your memories, uproot your pain, uproot yourself, and become Impartiality, a living example of Blankness.

This is what you need to do, to be understood by the Objective Mind.

Alternatively -- you rip the objective portraits and pictures, you tear the information and the data, you dig even deeper into your inner wilderness, into your thorns, into your wounds...let them bleed again, expose them to fresh air and sunlight, expose them to Life...

A rebirth, not the one they told you about, not their birth pangs nor their labour pain, the pains of their new world order, but yours...your new world order...

Expose them to History and to Life, so you can live again.

Do not let them cut your tongue with "objectivity".

Hurl it, roar it...

Become the warrior and the poet of your own Liberation...with Wisdom, an ancient Wisdom, your ancient Wisdom.



Painting: Iraqi artist, Raed Saeed Farhan.

A Day of Mercy...

Tomorrow, 9th of March is the Mawlid Al-Nabawee. The Prophet's Birthday (pbuh).

On such an occasion, not too many words are needed...In fact more often than not, too many words are not necessary. The Essential cannot be explained in words. It needs to be lived...

To understand the Message, one needs to look at the one who carries and delivers it -the Messenger. Only then, will words and texts make sense...






Video : Sami Yusuf - Hasbi Rabbi in English, Hindi/Urdu, Turkish and Arabic.

Sounds of Passion and Beauty.

A beautiful piece by Omar Bashir, the Iraqi Oud player, son of the late Munir Bashir.

I find Omar to be very talented, a student of his late father...infusing his father's teaching and knowledge of Oud with his own personal style.

What has become of Iraq's Oud players ? Apart from the few exiled ones...
What happened to the institutes of Music, Ballet and Fine Arts ?

What is fine about Baghdad and Iraq these days ? What has this "Liberation" -Occupation produced in terms of Creativity, apart from a few lone voices and Ouds, in the wilderness, reminiscing on Passion and Beauty ?





Video : Omar Bashir in Concert, Budapest 2008.

Monkeys for a Laugh...

The other night, I went out with a bunch of a friends to our usual place...

You know, one of the good things about being an introvert observer such as myself, is that I get to hear all the conversations taking place around me...

It is not that am eavesdropping, God forbid...It's just am driven by what you may call a "natural curiosity"...humans simply "enthrall" me...

Close by, were sitting a group of men, age range late 20's to early 30's. This is the WORST age for a guy, by the way. Most of them still can't tell their asses from a hole in the ground.

So naturally, I overheard their conversation. In a group of men, there is always one that talks the most, usually boasts the most...When that is the case, you can be sure, like 100%, that this guy is full of shit.

Anyways this prime boaster was saying :

- Oh man, she was so gorgeous...and then came her boyfriend. Fuck, what an ass.
You should have seen him ! His belly was soooo big, I bet he could not even see his dick. And man, he was so short. What the fuck is a gorgeous woman like that doing with a monkey like him ?! Oh man, she was so hot...

So one of the other guys wanting the stage for himself, said :

- Yeah, do you remember X? She's hot too. Guess what guys, I dated her.

- No fucking way ! retorted the rest, you did ? Did you get to piss in her garden ?

Boaster no.2 blushed and stuttered...

- Hmmm, not yet...but I will, I will....

I can't swear on it, it was too dark, but I did see his hand slide on his crotch, just to make sure it is still there and that he will live up to his promise of "pissing in her garden"

They all laughed as they thought themselves to be so cool and so hilarious...

Layla in her corner was already praying for sweet revenge... A sweet revenge to have these guys put back in their natural place, knowing fully well that Mother Nature, the Goddess, whatever what you want to call HER, has her own ways...

And sure enough, a sincere prayer never goes unanswered...

The guys finished drinking their beers and it was time for them to go and boast of more illusory conquests...

As they stood up, I noticed that out of the 5, 4 of them were not taller than 5 feet.
In other words - very short and small looking.

And lo and behold, boaster no.1 had such a huge belly, that I am sure he could not even find his own dick below the grease folds, if he had one that is...

I shrieked with a nasty laughter...My friends interrupted whatever conversation they were having and said "Layla are you OK ?, we were just discussing Z's failed love affair. What is so funny about it ?"

So I turned to Z. and asked

- was he a monkey by any chance ?

Z. paused but not for very long...

- I guess he was...

I pointed my finger to the bunch of guys who were leaving the place and we all noticed that boaster no.2 had his hand on his crotch again, as in some instinctive reflex...

- like these ?

- fuck yes, same style.


And we all broke out in a hearty female laughter...

Painting : Iraqi female artist, Sawsan El-Sarraf.