Wednesday 24 September 2008

Ramblings on Arab Men -- Part II

The Mental Slave.

Oh, just look at him, just look at him. Bowing and bending over backwards.

Just look at him. So courteous and stylish in speech. He selects his sentences with most accurateness, presents them on a silver platter and bows some more. She has blessed him with a tiny bit of approval. After all, she accepted to see him, date him or even marry him. He bows some more.

"Come here, go there", he obliges like a faithful dog. After all, she looked at him. Him the darkie, suddenly blessed with the white maiden's hand.

A shoe polisher, this is what he is, in his head.

He polishes his image, his origins, his country, even his beliefs, to please the white maiden. She comes from Mother Britannia, Auntie Samia, Hail Frau Hitler, Oh la la, Moulin Rouge la France or some Viking left over of some female dragged by her hair in the caves of Scandinavia...and you can add whatever you wish...

And like the shoe that he is, spineless, with no dignity, he abides by her rules.

Everyone around exclaims with jubilation " My, he is so nice, so different."

That of course earns him more pats on the head, more old bones thrown his way, that he licks with gratitude, forever grateful to be considered in the first place.

You see, I sometimes have a vision of him as a dog, sometimes as a shoe polisher, sniffing the whiff of shoe polish, with "cultural" reverence.

There is one thing you need to know about the above specimen of an "Arab man", he comes under all forms and shades. He can be your stereotypical colonial slave, your wanna be Jihadist, your internationalist leftie, or your nationalist Arabist...and you can add whatever you wish.

Of course, you and I can argue, that it is a very good thing that this specimen is "an aware, respectful, in awe" object. Sure.

I mean after all it is a good thing to respect women and abide by their rules, pay courtesy, be polite, be in awe. I personally have nothing against it. Except...

Except when this thing lands back home, in his familiar territory, in his familiar terrain, come and have a look at him.

Please come and see him sitting with his legs wide open, his balls dangling on the sofa, playing House Master. Please come and hear his language, ordering about, as if he just discovered his God sent mission. Come and laugh at his airs, his airs of sultan, his airs of virility, a royal air of a poor castrated bastard, who left his balls behind and has come to invent and grow a new pair in front of you.

He will flex his fake muscles in your face, and pretend that he is it. He will use a language that the two cents rotten putrid, unwashed, warty, fucked up, females that ruled and rule his head will never accept. He will puff his cigarette, cigar or whatever the fuck he smokes, flick the ashes, blow the smoke with an air of disdain and say "you know the problem with you, Arab are too..." Too this and too that. Not enough of this and not enough of that...When the bastard shoe polisher was sniffing the floor for approval...

And oh how he looks back in nostalgia to the day when he was an object, a dog, an exotic dildo, to be used and thrown some fucked used piece of tissue.

But he loves it. He loves it that way. He feels infused with life when he is humiliated and treated like the dog that he really is. His slave mind keeps reminding him of his natural place. So why are you so upset with what I have to say now ?

Oh yes, let me tell it to you the way it is. Running all the risks there are to face...

Let me tell it to you the way it is, because it is high time someone does.

Let me tell you about the moral corruption of the Arab male, boy do I know him.

Let me tell you about his double standards, his fake manhood, his fake self...let me tell you about his fake values, his fake conscience, his fake everything...

Let me tell you about the years, the decades, the centuries where I and countless others had to sit and listen to his bullshit. Let me tell you about the time wasted listening to him preaching, listening to him orating, listening to him politicizing, listening to him reflecting...and all the while you discover and you know the slave dog, shoe polisher in front of you.

And you nod your head, smile and say "sure, habibee", "sure thing dear", and you see him sitting on this fucking sofa with his balls dangling, polishing shoes in his head.

He sits, watches TV, surfs the web, or whatever the fuck he is doing and he pretends he is with it. Oh, the militant one, the aware one, the one...

He sits and fucking pontificates all day and all night, while admiring his little thing in the dark corners of his mind.

Oh, is it still there ? Masha'Allah, Hallelujah, he managed to safeguard it after all...Seems the toxins from the shoe polishing, the wastes from the dildo's batteries did not affect it, yet...

But wait, whom will he brandish it in front of, but you ? Look at me, look at it, this is us. We are here...

Oh, so you are here now, are you ?

So where you you motherfucker, when your sisters, mothers, daughters, wives, partners and lovers were being tortured and raped by Mother England and Auntie Samia ?

Where were you, when your daughters, wives, sisters, mates...were being exiled in Syria, Amman, and Egypt, prostituting themselves ?

Where were you, you motherfucker, fake son of a bitch when they became destitute, hungry and cold ? Where were you ?

So where were you, you slut ? In which garçonnière, in which brothel, in which cabaret? So what kind was it, you little mental whore? Russian, Morrocan, English, or some other nationality, that you have added to your list, your bragging list, classified by geographical location.

Or did you go and pull your wallet with a 10 dollar bill, out of compassion for the Arab one, the Iraqi one ?

Do you want to know where you were you son of a bitch ? I will tell you.

You were in some mosque, praying Allahu Akbar, or behind some computer typing away your Arabism, or in some bed, admiring your dick, while being used like some dildo, or in some pub saying cheers and impressing and pleasing some more...

This is where you were. And this where you have always been.

And you expect me to understand and respect you ? Ha!

You fucking shoe polisher, you dog, you prostitute, you mental slave, you deserve nothing but my contempt.

Painting : Iraqi artist, Mohammed Yass.