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.
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.
