An unexpectedly patriotic rant

Its 12:45 am. Earlier than my usual bouts of reflective melancholy. It is already quiet in the house and I’m thinking of pulling an all-nighter simply because. I like this quite in-between.

My room is a mess – the way it used ot be in KSA. I have been keeping it clean since I got here but with all this stuff…I’m wondering why I brought it in the first place. Its like burning a CD. you burn it with a certain mood and then after a couple days wonder why the hell you put those songs in there. What were you thinking? What was I thinking? I was thinking here would be so much like there. I was afraid here would be like there so I brought everything that I needed, might possibly need here. But here is a new place. I need to make space for new things.

I am thinking of relationships and death, and what Pakistan has come to. What we have come to as a people, as a race, as human beings. What has happened to us and where is that Pakistan I remember from my early years? Where is that possibility of life? I never classed myself as patriotic. But patriotism has become more of a love for the people than a love for the government. If it can even be called love. I detest the culture but I know it and maybe that is what makes me feel for it more than the goings on in Mexico or Sudan or Iraq, Afghanistan. I know what the roads look like, I know the smell, the dirt of that country and this mere knowing…it does something. There is so much potential there. So much talent. People like me who are willing to think, willing to put themselves out there, prove themselves, willing to LIVE and not just exist as secondary things among the political warfare. Collateral damage. I hate that term.

I have the urge, again and again, to pack up and go there. To live impermanently but to live and DO something. To change something for someone over there – to show them there is more to life than desecration and death. But I have no money of my own and money is everything. I do have a “network” there – what I prefer to call a group of like-minded individuals who are willing to be real enough to give some form of a damn about whats going on around them. And yes, we have a vision we are working towards – a vision of Pakistan as it once was, culturally rich, educated, a place to be proud of. The Pakistan that we remember from years ago when we were little kids, the Pakistan we hear of from even further back when our parents were kids. We have that vision and perhaps we can make it something more. Perhaps we can make it better.

This wasn’t meant to be a patriotic rant. I guess this is just what I am thinking of, more than I would care to admit. Maybe its some ridiculous response to being in this wonderful mesh of people and cultures that is the GTA. Maybe its some desperate grasp for identity. I dont know what it is but it has me thinking. I wonder what it takes to get other people thinking too.

Villanelle

What comes out of this pain?

echoing through centuries the lament

of being alive and human and sane

We carry on in the wrong lane

tracing the paths of our descent

to find what comes out of this pain

As gatherers we venture out for gain

from our flimsy paper tent

of the alive and human and sane

Walking while predators line the plane

all that happens now happens with our consent

to what comes out of this pain

And this time the Earth does not birth grain

we return with bodies and heads bent

to be alive and human and sane

Many of us have lain

tired nights, long, bodies spent

for what comes out of this pain

of being alive and human and sane

Song of the Sirens

 

the sounds break open

and die at your feet -

what are we

supposed to say to this?

the heretical sound

of music this night when

no words can be said

to our children

of what we have done to ourselves

of what we keep doing –

 

tonight the sirens

sing us to sleep

to a chorus of rhythmic bombing

tonight the sirens

wail    somebody

has been shot, somebody

has been knifed, somebody

raped

or all three    or somebody

has been netted

with bullets, dragged

into a cell, stripped

mutilated,    or somebody

has choked on a pretzel

 

.tonight

we lay our children to sleep

shutting the fairytale we told

them so they may rest peacefully

tonight    in some other world

that we do not know    (do not wish

to know)    a child

lays entrapped in

the song of the sirens

 

tonight the sounds break

open

but die at your feet –

tomorrow there will be nothing

to say of this.

Reflections on a Man in a Room

I wouldn’t want to be left in the same room with him, relatively alone. It was only the two of us, and then him. Its better to judge wrongly and leave, then to stay and risk…stuff.

The threat was real then. He could easily have done things to us. The door could lock. The walls were thick concrete – sounds didn’t easily pass through. And he could’ve.

He had this look about him. Like he would. Like he was on edge, ready to snap at any moment, any mistaken word. Like he couldn’t look at us without thinking about “it”. But it might just have been me.

So I left. Didn’t wait for any more evidence. Its usually too late by then anyways. I don’t know what happened to the other girl who was with me. She didn’t leave. You could accuse me of abandoning her there, but I didn’t. I told her what I thought and left it up to her. We spoke about him later on. She said he was a nice guy. He might well have been. A lot of them are. Nice.

The Perils of Feminist Angst and Miscommunication

A little girl gets caught in the crush of women waiting to receive gifts sponsored by USAID in honour of International Women’s Day in Kandahar City. With resources in short supply, women jostle each other to make sure they get their share.

Photo by Paula Lerner

The Globe and Mail has recently published a series of interviews, titled “Behind the Veil”. This series endeavors to bring to public attention the everyday plight of the Afghan woman, and more generally, the oppressed woman, wherever she is. Unfortunately, despite procuring several opportunities to speak privately to these women, The Globe and Mail has failed to produce what could have been among the most powerful pieces of feminist reporting in our era.

A major fail-factor with regard to these interviews was The Globe’s shitty methodology. The interviews were conducted by a hired local woman/girl (I believe there were two because there are two different voices). The hired Globe proxy was “trained” to use a digital camera and to ask the interviewees a bunch of questions on a list that The Globe provided. The list consisted of basic identification questions (name, place of birth and residence, marital status etc) to more “serious” ones such as “what is the difference between men’s and women’s lives in Afghanistan?” “What do you think of the political situation in Afghanistan?” and my personal favourite, “Have you ever driven a car?”. I’m sure that between the daily beatings and degradation that woman face everyday, they’re all just crushed by the fact that they aren’t allowed to drive cars. Absolutely crushed. The denial of choice in marriage, the denial of birth control, the denial of all those other more important things is secondary, of course.

WHAT was The Globe thinking when they put in that question? Or were they thinking at all?

The entire series seems to be centered on evoking a response from the independent, working woman, instead of trying to represent the life of an Afghan woman without biases. The effect of this series would have been exponentially stronger had The Globe tried to promote a sense of solidarity between the Afghan woman and the American woman (or Canadian, or European, etc) instead of projecting Afghan culture as different from ours and thus harrowing. The Perils of Feminist Angst are exactly this – projecting our cultural values onto another person and judging their life by that standard – illustrated beautifully in the question “Have you ever driven a car?”

The penchant people have for finding differences between their culture and one the have judged to be “inferior” is remarkable, and dangerously misleading. In approaching the study of a culture with biases, a researcher or reporter or communicator loses the ability to present an objective 360-degree view of the dynamics at work in that culture. This is what has happened and what keeps happening in articles or news pieces regarding the Afghan culture or others similarly deemed inferior. In asking women if they have ever driven a car, The Globe is implying that driving a car is a priority. But is it? Wouldn’t these women rather have safe households? Wouldn’t they rather be allowed to grow up before they are required to consummate marriages with men sometimes 10 times their age? Why did the Globe not ask them why they raised their sons to be abusive, domineering men? Why did the Globe not ask Mothers in Law why they treat their Daughters in Law with such hatred when they themselves have been in that position?

The flaw lies again with The Globes interviewing “techniques” and the fact that a professional reporter did not conduct these interviews. Instead of an empathetic connection forming between the interviewer and interviewee, a mutual trust, there is a distance and a sense of duty. The interviewees communicate suspicion through even their burka-clad faces as the interviewer reads from her list of questions robotically, not acknowledging and responding to their answers but just drumming out her own questions. An opportunity for female connection and understanding has been lost, and while facing dismissal from their male counterparts, the Afghan women face it from their kind too.

I will end this post with a poem by the renowned Adrienne Rich, who has been and still is among the most influential feminist activists to ever have lived.

Women

My three sisters are sitting
on rocks of black obsidian.
For the first time, in this light, I can see who they are.

My first sister is sewing her costume for the procession.
She is going as the Transparent lady
and all her nerves will be visible.

My second sister is also sewing,
at the seam over her heart which has never healed entirely,
At last, she hopes, this tightness in her chest will ease.

My third sister is gazing
at a dark-red crust spreading westward far out on the sea.
Her stockings are torn but she is beautiful.

Ways to help the Afghan women.

Communication

There is too much silence in life. Sure, we’ve got Twitter and Facebook and WordPress and other modes of communication and platforms for “free speech”, but how much of that speech is useful? How much of it is said for the right reasons? To the right people?

Most of what is said turns into background noise for all the words and questions we turn over in our heads. Half-baked ideas that get pushed aside for some “how do you do? The weather is great today, isnt it?”, questions that get smothered by the repetition of to-do lists, things that need to be screamed out and arent, simply because we forgo quality for quantity, authenticity for some nice warm fuzzy feeling that we get inside by looking at the number of “friends” we’ve got on our “friends list” or contacts on our mobile phone, or views on our blog.

How much of what we say goes to waste? And where does all this lost energy go?

Is this what communication has come to?

I just finished watching Blood Diamond. You know, that film about how diamonds are forcibly mined, smuggled and bought buy people all over the world? The one which ends with a guy finally getting his family together from a diamond he hid. That leaves you with the quote “there are still 200,000 child soldiers in Africa”. Fuck knows, there may be a couple thousand more. And for every child there’s a mother, father and sibblings that’re grieving. But you know what the problem is? The problem is – movies like that, articles like that, books like that…they might make someone cry for a minute, or write a cheque (as the movie aptly points out)…but then what? Then you feed your cat, lock the doors and blog about it.

Reading People

There is a certain urgency about her. Too much of an effort being expended to please, to be the fun one or the funny one or the one everyone has a good time with. I wonder where that comes from and my mind draws certain conclusions and imagines certain scenarios I know arent true. Or at least I have no reason to believe are true.

Her gestures are exaggerated, as is her voice, her intonation. I’m tempted to say it is an act but it would be wrong to say its not genuine. It is genuine. It is an unconscious or at least uncontrollable way of being. That isnt to say there is anything wrong with being as such. It is simply interesting to observe an exaggerated personality. I would like to know what more there is to it.

~*~

I wonder how accurate my conclusions are about people. But then it is inaccurate in itself to draw conclusions at all because that is to assume a certain finality to who we are as people. Lets see where this new category takes us. I plant to keep on “studying”, people watching and such.

Madness is a luxury – to willfully give in to crippling fears, insecurities, to surrender to whims, to give up simply all form of socially acceptable living…to live for ones self is a luxury. To call it selfish would be pointless. Everything we do is selfish. In acknowledging the selfishness, in bringing ourselves to embrace it, at least we are not being hypocrites.

They say there is a link between madness and creativity. Woolf, Keats, the big and famous, the literary giants, the painters, the musicians, the everything, all of them were mad. Does that mean then that I must surrender creativity for normalcy? Does that mean that I will lose my creativity in embracing normalcy?

I can feel it already – thinking inside the box. Its a box bigger than most, I agree. But a gold cage is still a cage and a box with invisible bounds is worse. It isnt exhaustion, it isnt momentary creative block – it is a thought pattern that has nestled cozily and helped itself to my brain-juice. I am spent without having spent anything. Creativity has been diffusing out of me within these confines – within these spaces that only allow me to be creative in such way, in such context, in such direction. You may only be creative when it is required of you, in the mean while please maintain a clinical distance. Clean cuts, suction, no mess and healing stitches. Keep your creativity bandaged up until we need it. Otherwise it is of no use to us.

This post is an attempt at explaining away my mediocre creations of late. Of course, it is untrue. I am responsible for my creativity, to channel it through whichever pathway, outlet. I am responsible for my mediocrity. Nothing gets to me more.

Meh.

If I were to be completely honest, I’d say part of me misses being the little one. Not the little one in terms of the youngest child but in terms of the naive, young thing thats still learning. I feel I am older than I am. Most times I take pride in it, in my independence. Then sometimes I’d just love to be held and sung to sleep. Or held and listened to until I’ve given all the speeches I make up in my head and all thats left to do is be cuddled in comfortable silence.

We were discussing “segregated education” today at uni for english and the topic went over to how a segregated society promotes homosexuality. I disagree. But thats not the point. Whenever “we” (the world and I) have a “discussion” of this sort, it occurs to me how extremely animal-like humans are. It all comes down the reproduction and progression of the human race. How tiresome…boring…that that is all life is about. And what of art? What of music? What about love that does not need validation through sex? What about sex that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with making love? And why is everyone so interested in who decides to make love with whom? Be it a man and a man or a woman and a woman or a woman and a man.

Whats simply astonishing is how they’ll accept a heterosexual asshole and attribute his asshole-ness to his manliness, and reject wonderful people whos only “problem” is that they are “twisted”. It was hate I saw in that classroom. And disgust. But why? Why……because its alright for someone to be a murderer, a rapist, a thief, a whatever the fuck there is to be, as long as he can fuck and she can be fucked and the human race can keep on moving.

I will never bring a child into this world willingly.

Whats the

p

o  ?   i

n t

And does there have to be one?

Acceptance

I have the application form for university next to me. I’ve chosen something..mildly artistic..somewhat acceptable…a compromise mid-way. I’m sick of compromises but its either half or nothing. Seems like it always is. Oh well.

I dont know what to fill out in this form thats supposed to represent my academic competence. I have not yet received the results for my IGCSE exams (due August 10th) and I am now looking at the scheduled dates for my personality test + interview + TOEFL + math placement test in September so I can get a scholarship..to make my choice of profession more acceptable.

Acceptance is everything, is it not?

Dissecting Anger

Once upon a time we went to the beach and had ice-cream. It was a fun day. We were all laughing at stupid things. Then I had a thought, and my brain ’sploded. After that I promised never to think again.

I am angry. My arm feels like an elephant sat on it and I feel like cruelly making fun of society and laughing, just because I can. I realise I tend to displace anger. I would rather make fun of society, since society, collectively, does not give a shit whether or not I make fun of it. I would rather seethe, secretly, develop a pounding headache, blame my silence on said headache and wait for everything to pass than say all the angry, mean, hurtful thoughts that come to mind when I have been treated with anger, carelessness, hurtful intent and such…stuff.

Anger,”they” say, is one of the seven deadly sins. I recall countless times I’ve been taught not to be angry. I remember my Islamic studies teacher in the 5th grade telling us how bad it was to be angry. She then used to shout uncontrollably at us for not doing such and such thing…or doing it..whichever was not “allowed”. But I suppose thats besides the point.

I used to wonder then, as I do now, how is one to keep from getting angry. We are humans, and according to Muslim, Christian and Jewish theology, God created humans, therefore God created anger..or at least, knows that it is inevitable for a human-being, at one point or another, to experience the feeling of wanting to rip out someone’s guts and strangle them…or throw a glass on the floor simply for the sake of unleashing the destruction that is wreaking havoc in one’s head. So it escapes me why anger has been termed sinful and wrong.

With theology out of the equation, we are all (still) human. It is inevitable for us to feel anger, and at times anger, correctly dealt with, has lead to the betterment of many situations. Revolutions start with a handful of angry people speaking out against something that they believe is wrong. But I believe extremism and its..results begin the same way – with a handful of angry people.

I was told once, by whom I do not remember, that anger is not one feeling. I was not told what other feelings go into the mix. I suppose that was something left for me to figure out. I haven’t yet found a feeling that makes anger what it is. Disbelief may be one – the realisation that some subconsciously expected and “known” variable is not, in fact, what you expected and “knew”- Resistance to change and all that. Self-defence/preservation can be another. I know it is easier to feel anger than it is to feel hurt. Anger, at times, allows one to deny the vulnerability of one’s self. Blame shifts elsewhere. And poof! You feel all better. Or, at least, better than bad.

I can think of other feelings that may come together and contribute to anger, but I don’t think they’re very generalizable, and are certainly not what makes anger distinctly…anger-y.

It could be that there are different types of anger. The productive and the destructive. Even then, children should not be taught to not be angry at all. It adds guilt to an already guilt ridden mind. Mine, at least, if no one else’s.

Since the pounding in my head has peaked, and I now have to baby-sit my sister till she falls asleep, I shall stop here.

If anyone has their theories on anger, I’d love to know… just for the heck of diving into our psychological depths and…finding out stuff thats ultimately pointless… or..um..whatever.

*goes poof*

Paakiza

I happened to stumble across this movie last night as my dad and brother were watching it. For those that don’t know, its an old indian film built generally around the life of a woman that is an escort. I choose that word because it is more respectful than others I could find.

Those of you for whom this topic is…sensitive, it’d be a good idea to stop reading. Those that think they can take it are welcome to read and comment.

I say I stumbled across the film because I had no intention of watching it when I first sat down to dinner. I was, however, drawn in by the musical renderings of the film, the striking (for that time) cinematography and its wonderfully intricate plot that made a point. And was not just a plot for the sake of it.

The movie left me pondering the meaning of the word “Paak”. I first went through synonyms – clean, pure, uncorrupted, immaculate…and then I wondered where the word “virgin” factors in to all of this. It astounds me how people have such different interpretations of purity, most relying completely on chastity, and very few others taking into consideration something deeper.

Escorts are shunned and looked down upon. I can’t understand why, as no child wishes to grow up to walk streets and sell him/herself. We are all ballerinas, archeologists, teachers, writers, astronauts, race-car drivers and ice-cream tasters. It is no one’s dream to be exploited, no one’s dream to cooperate while it happens, and yet society shuns the escorts. Not the men that go to them, not their brothers, husbands, fathers that go to them. Society casts blame where it is most easily accepted. It does not repremand itself for driving women and men (yes, I speak of male escorts too) to such “choices”. It does not blame itself for raising childern so shamelessly that there are those willing to put a price on another’s “purity”.

For a world that values the idea of chastity, I’d say thats pretty low. For those that pride themselves for being above those that are forced to sell themselves, it is a slap on the face.

Paakiza made a point, that I am afraid not many people got.

I hope this post has perpetuated its message, even a little bit.

Ba Ba Black Sheep

“Lets all wear designer clothes and act stupid! Everyone’s doing it!”

I have recently been to quite a few social gatherings. Too many for my tastes. And if there’s one thing I’ve noticed, its that *everyone* looks exactly the same. Pin straight hair, the same damn shiny lip-gloss and “natural” make-up look, similar accessories (there was first a woven friendship bracelet fad, and then the rubber “I support *insert name of big, well-known earthly dilemma here* bracelets, and before these two, the jelly bracelet fad) and the SHOES! Dont get me started on the shoes! Those flat ballerina/mountian climber inspired shoes that EVERYONE is wearing. I wonder what happened to stilletoes or sneakers or flip-flops or sandals or any other damn type of foot-wear!

Its like theres a factory manufacturing people with the same “tastes” and despairingly low IQ level (I’m not a real fan of the IQ system, but it gets the point across, so bear with me). There used to be a time when people had *personal* style and not something marketed buy all those corporate jack-asses out there trying to fit people into moulds. Whats sad is the idea is being bought. Everyone looks the same, talks the same and lyk walks the same and lyk oh my god lyk dun you lyk agree? >_>

Small talk with such beings has gotten increasingly tedious. I have always hated small talk,?? but I abhor it all the more at present, because now it extends to this:

Me: So, what music do you listen to?

Idiot: Um..lyke, I dunno, lyke yew knw that muvee Race, I lyke those sngs and lyk nething new, yknw? Lyke this sng, I luv this sng

*Cue song sung by some sexually depraved, small-man-part-complexed guy talking about some person that brings shame to the word “woman”*

Me: >_>

<_<

-__-

Idiot: Yew dun lyke it?! Lyke omg!

Me(aside): Humanity is doomed.

You may choose to call me a snob, say there is more to people than their choice of music and clothes, and I should stoop down to- *cough* I mean I should be able to befriend all sorts of people

My definition of friendship, however, goes deeper than calling up someone when I need a favour. Friendship, to me, is more than just building a contacts tree that I can fall back on if my career should suddenly collapse. It is more than just shallow conversation consisting of “hey, how are you?” followed by a half-hearted response of how wonderful I feel, and mock-interest in what the other person has to say. The idea of befriending someone simply to gain favours, pass time and make shitty conversation repulses me.

With my stance on fake people and their many ills, I see a lot of boredom in my future.

And yes, I am a snob. Proud of it, too.

The Day is Saved, Thanks To! -

Three cans and four glasses of coke later, I have understood a profound truth that I found previously unfathomable – I can keep procrastinating major decisions until I absolutely have to make them!

With only minor, sometimes..sort of possibly disastrous repercussions…but lets not think about that. No. Lets ignore that completely and focus on…*look of shock, awe, unparalleled appreciation*… THE SILVER LINING!

While we are focusing on that, let us disregard the fact that a cloud is present at all! It does not exist, just like the elephant in the room. Did someone say elephant? Where? Wha..? Why would you say elephant mid-conversation? Is that some sort of a twisted mannerism of yours?! Shut UP! I’m talking! I DO NOT SEE AN ELEPHANT! ASS!

No, I meant you’re an ass. I dont see an ass in the room either. Except you. Would you just let me make a point?!

Thank you.

Now, while banishing all clouds to oblivion, save their silver linings, humanity is faced with (yet) another dilemma. You’ve got sparkly stuff reflecting sunlight and now the world is doomed to darkness. Unless -

DOOMED! I say! Doooom-ed!

(Just making sure you got that)

Unless – in steps Magical Melancholy Man! (transformed so by a certain vampire in presence of nuclear radiation)

Rejoice all! For the world is saved! As Magical Melancholy Man single-mindedly conjours up enough clouds to put traitorous pessimists back in their place.

Hooray for Magical Melancholy Man and the ever so under-rated power of pessimism!

The End.