December 1, 2012

Too Young To Be So Old


Fatima was only two years young, and today she was out to see the world. She skipped alongside her father, singing "Mama's coming home tonight, Mama's bearing me gifts alright". In seconds, a man wearing faded jeans, and a shirt too old to look clean leaned out the side of a moving bus, snapped his fingers and yelled "Araby, Araby, Araby". That was their cue, and her father halted her to a stop before the bus got too close to annihilating them. He pulled out a few bills and exchanged them for a ride. As Fatima stepped onto the  floor of the old Mitsubishi-excuse of a public transport vehicle, a young boy around her age caught her attention. Perched up on his tired mother's lap, he was wearing a well-fitted, clean suit. He looked like a sample of importance, off to some special event. His eyes twinkled a little, like it was his first day out into the big world too. He smiled and clapped his hands singing "Mama's coming home tonight, Mama's bearing me gifts alright". But Fatima didn't see any of that. Instead she tugged on her father's sleeve and whispered, "Baba! Look." Pointing at his suit and chuckling, "Haramy Sagheer!" (Young thief)

Her baba turned around to dedicate his attention to the source of his little angel's witty comment. When he found a young black boy in a black suit he did not lash out at her. Instead he laughed and playfully pinched her arm, it was almost like a tickle rather than a reproach. Somewhere deep inside his sleeping conscious, her father knew that she was too young to detect an honest face from a criminal's; and somewhere deeper he knew that a lie was detected in one's eyes, not identified by the color of one's skin. Yet, he laughed gleefully at the throat-cutting comment his young one just made, because somehow the devil on his shoulder convinced him that "She was too young to understand". 


But dear Abu-Fatima, she will grow older, and in her lifetime she will see the color of skin before the context of character. She already understood that having full lips and a dark hue of melanin meant being poor and less of a person than she was. Just that morning, her mother stripped her of her golden bracelet claiming that there were too many thieves at the market. But no one had told her what a thief was supposed to look like, all she knew was that time and time again her father clasped his wallet tighter when a dark man with shaggy clothes walked by. She didn't know that their features were, in fact, similar to those of her great grandfathers. She didn't know that they could work hard and earn an honorable living just like her father did. She didn't know that there was a bloody explanation to why their clothes were shabby. ; and that someone out there decided to betray God's decree of equality and bestow a war-infested fate on the "young thief's" people, just because they were different. Nevertheless, she is the future of a divided nation who was never taught unity. As such, our broken present sort of makes sense now, doesn't it? How do you break this cycle of prejudice when you don't even know it's unjustified? How do you understand it is unjustified when you haven't been taught that hate speech is not a breech of your freedom, or that racism is not right?

As I relay this story, I remember someone asking me about my people's outlook on diversity, and how they classified themselves. They were basically asking me to define my racial belonging, and identify myself. In trying to explain how my forefathers probably thought they were better than his, I found that I too was trying to understand this identity puzzle I was born into. It may be outdated to say that our souls do not choose the bodies they inhabit, but is it misguided to say that we do not always choose the definition of our souls, either? It is true that we are not born with stereotypes and fields of classification embedded into our minds like veins to the heart. But then how do we explain someone so young preaching concepts that only an old, corrupt soul is meant to comprehend? Indeed, we often unconsciously pass down legacies, and I believe that is mainly because at some point in time these legacies turn into norms practiced so casually. Thus, when Palestine is recognized merely as a non-member state after sixty-five years, no one questions why it took us so long. For the most part, people seem to have lost faith in their cause, or maybe they had forgotten them all together. It is not a surprise, then, that the genocides in Darfur and South Kurdufan have not even been recognized as conflicts worthy of global intervention. But what does, in fact, strike me is that tomorrow Abu-Fatima might call on the world and ask them to aid Sudan. Therefore, I wonder how it is that we find the audacity to call for change when we refuse to accept our black african brothers and sisters as indispensable organs of the Sudanese body, meanwhile refusing to completely assimilate with our Arab counterparts. We almost refuse the two sides but ask to be classified as an entity of both simultaneously, and the worse part is we don't even realize it! This is what makes the cycle difficult to break.  Nevertheless, all hope is not lost, and maybe somewhere out there Fatima will break loose of these social buckles and chains, and write to the world a blog post in an attempt to create a mental revolution that paves the way for a tolerable future.    


November 4, 2012

Jadlat Dayl Alfaras(The Ponytail Braid)

You never heard anyone say "Razan walked by me today", for the air of prestige that eluded her made "walk" seem to doleful an act to adhere to her swift movements. Instead, she glided over the uneven ground with such elegance, that she demanded the undivided attention of anyone who passed her by. Razan eroded an aura that made you feel inferior, like she owned the world, and she probably did--with the likes of Ahmed, Yahia, Moses and John all queued up at her feet just for a whiff of her Poison Dior or a glance at her full lips, which were always painted a perfect shade of J'adore Fushia 29 to complement her caramel toned skin . To any of them, death by the sword would be as sweet as honey mint tea on a breezy spring day, if it were at her hands; and the blinding light that would flash as Azrael  hovered to capture their souls would be a merciful alternative to the inclement captivation her large, Arabian eyes were capable of. She was simply beyond beautiful, with little of a personality to complement her mesmerizing facade.

Given, this was not her fault. Wouldn't you be arrogant and condescending if you were born with a golden spoon in you mouth? That was all Razan knew, gold and platinum. You were not worth her time if you did not drive a vehicle that could remotely catch up to her 2013 Porche Panamera S Hybrid Hatchback. Life was a race and those who cannot run fast enough should not even bother to compete, she would say. She was completely aware of the extent to which her father's influence could reach, and she never minded exercising that influence. When she wanted something, she got it. It was always that simple to her because she could afford to bestow upon others the responsibilities of "how" and  "when", (with "why" out of the equation since it was always cancelled out by her "because I said so"). If you could be anyone, you would want to be Razan for she was the center of all the girls' envy and  every boys' admiration.

But today, among all days, was not typical to Razan's acculturation. She was not used to waking up on her own, to find the armchair across her bed lacking her neatly folded attire of the day. With a grump she kicked herself out of the warm embrace of her Indian silk sheets and made a mental reminder to bring hell upon whoever was responsible for such utter chaos on this important day. But for now she had to speedily prepare herself for college. She needed to look her best since the professor she had to persuade for an alternative grade seemed to be a pragmatic one. She knew the task was to be difficult, but never impossible for, like her father always said, everyone has a price. As she fit into the long floral dress she acquired from Dubai some months ago, she noticed that her beautician was no where to be found. Curses, what was she to do with her hair now? How did they expect her to just toss it all back on a day like this? 
"Ne pas problament du tout! Who even needs hair when you're this pretty." she said to girl looking back at her from the dresser's mirror. As such, she knit her long black hair into a ponytail braid, pulled out her bag of brushes and bleaches, and began to italicize her bold features to the best of their ability.

As she rushed down the stairs, she came across Mary, who was foolish enough to leave a broom on the edge of the last step. Luckily for Mary, Razan could not afford to be particularly attentive to such misgivings on this day, and she overlooked the iniquity just as she did Mary. But minutes later, the fact that Razan swept her hand over the dining table and came up empty handed was nearly unforgivable. Hawsa, the cook, who had heard Razan's footsteps a few minutes earlier, managed to make a tactful appearance with a Provolone Croissant, and place it between Razan's long fingers before Razan had the time to think of a befitting scold. With a loud sigh, Razan snatched her breakfast and made her way to the Italian leather key chain that bound the keys of her sports car. With two loud beeps that alarmed Babiker, the door man, she was beyond garage doors and out of sight. As her Porche sneezed into appearance at the college parking lot, May and Seham were quick to approach the car from both sides, prepared to give their esteemed friend a befitting good morning.
"I love your dress!" was the first of a line of complements that May showered Razan with today. Although, secretly, she envied the diva since May herself had stubby, short legs that could do such a dress little justice, if at all. May was beautiful in her own right,which was to be expected of Razan's entourage. She had sharp features that lent themselves to those of the Arabs, despite her natural African hair. Seham, on the other hand, was taller and slimmer, and resembled some cross between Channel Iman and Ajak Deng. She held the heirs of a model, but lacked confidence for she believed her "dark chocolate" hue was unattractive. Even after spending dozens of hundreds on bleaching creams and products of the like, she was no where near as fair as her two companions. 

"Good morning Razo" Seham said in her reserved, shy tone of voice.

"Good morning ladies, I'm sorry I'm running terribly late this morning. I need to catch up with professor Abubakr, talk to you later, Ok." Razan replied, in a tone her friends took as an order rather than a suggestion.

As she swept her book bag and glided away, she could feel the piercing glares of her friends watching her pass them by. Unappreciative brats, wait for me to leave before you turn to backbite me. God only knows why I keep you around! Razan thought, as she heard the echoes of spiteful whispers begin to form. Before her anger with her displeasurable friends could escalate, she was in the professor Abubakr's crummy office.

"Good Morning, sir. May I have a moment of your time."

"Yes come in young lady, what is your name again?"

Fool! Keep pretending you don't know who I am, and I will see to it that you cease to be known  or heard of again! "I'm Razan Abdel Rahim Mohammed, Sir" emphasizing her last name, with little attempt to contain her irritation.


"Ah yes," He put down his pen and glanced up to take a proper look at the character before him. "What can I do for you Razan?" he said, peeking from the top of his heavy, brown marble spectacles.

"Well I was hoping you could reconsider the grade I was given on my paper"

"You believe your paper was worth more than it received?"

"Without question, sir." Razan replied with a heavy sense of authority in her voice, as she respectfully handed the professor her paper with hopes of having it reevaluated. As she did so she clasped her hands behind her back, tilted her hips to one side, and gave the man an irresistible, wide-eyed, smile.

The professor, an elderly, experienced man, chuckled to himself as he saw through her futile persuasive attempts. He quickly took up her paper and scanned through it to get a real sense of who she was. To him, students were representations of their work and as such were to be treated on their efforts, not their identities.

"Well ya Razan. My comments seem very clear as to why you received this mark." He said as he stood up and walked around his desk to stand in front of her. "You did not meet the requirements for these criteria here, neither have you attempted to meet them by possibly writing a second draft to present to me today. As such, I cannot change your mark simply because you want me to. You have great ideas ya Razan, it's only a matter of technical skills. I suggest you go home and review the course content related to this paper, and continue to do so, so that next time you don't have to come begging for a higher grade."

"But sir…

"Thank you for your time ya Razan." The professor said, cutting her off, mid-sentence. "I'm glad you're showing some sort of interest, and ambition in your studies. Keep it up, and don't hesitate to revisit me if you counter any other problems or difficulties. My door is always open to bright students like yourself." He reciprocated the wide-eyed smile, and placed the paper into her hands giving her a kindly, pat on the arm.

As Razan walked out of the office, she found herself dumfounded. Those few minutes had struck her with a force of ambivalent emotions that compared to nothing else she had ever felt. Although she did not get what she wanted, she was strangely satisfied. She felt no spite towards the man, not only because she knew in her heart that he was being fair, but because he saw something in her that others failed to see. He had made her feel good about her grade, because he seemed to imply that she could do better, that she was bright. How did he manage to balance between kindness and strict justice?

The thoughts that swarmed off in her head were too much to suppress to a later time, so she brushed through the group of "friends" waiting for her by her car. Without a word she drove off to her haven. She stopped her car in front of a small shack, that seemed like it could fall from a mere kiss of wind. There were cardboard walls that laid their weight on long, thin logs from what seemed to be cut off a baobab tree; all of which were covered by a thick rag made of dead animal skin sown to eroded rice bags.

"Hawa! Lamy! Abaker! Where are you guys?" She called as she walked towards the shack carrying a leather black suitcase in one hand and her croissant in the other.

As she came closer, a lanky, black figure emerged from the shack. The figure seemed ecstatic at the sight of Razan, and speedily moved from the shack to greet Razan with a warm embrace. The little girl was about ten, but she was tall and mature for her age. She was nothing but a sight of skin on bones. Nevertheless, she was a Nubian beauty done little justice by her dirt smeared, shaggy attire that resulted from brutal encounters with a street-bound, poverty-struck life.

"Razo! I've missed you. Hawa and Abaker are doing shifts at Shari' Al Matar(Airport Street),  Pa went to fetch some water, and Ma might be collecting at the streets nearby."

"Habibty, I've missed you too! Why are Hawa and Abaker at it again?" Razan demanded, "They know they won't sell much. They should stay here and read the books I bring for them, rather then go out and be treated like dogs in the streets of Khartoum. I keep telling your Pa not to let them go! Why doesn't he listened?!"

"Calm down Razo, you know what he is like." Lamy says with a chuckle, "'We don't know what tomorrow holds for us, best we do what we can to prepare for it' he says" Lamy quotes, squaring off her shoulders and deepening her voice in a theatrical imitation of her father.

"I just don't think children should be on the streets like that. I know how people look at them, and treat them. They are better off using their time to learn. Anyways, here's some breakfast for you." Razan said as she handed the croissant to Lamy. "I want you to eat it all, none of this divide and save for my family nonsense your Pa goes on about. Look at how skinny you are. Plus, I brought as much food as I could in this bag so they should all be set."

By now, Lamy had brought about a small rug on which she and Razan sat.

"They still don't like you coming here?" Lamy asked as she bit her teeth into the warm croissant.

"Oufff ya Lamy, don't even get me started! If I had it my way you would all be living with me, you know. I just hate how hypocritical they all are! Those nasty maids who told on your father that day, I give them hell! As for my father, he claims his political work forces him to be the way he is. But I know better. This Kezan have brainwashed him into thinking you deserve to be on the streets. 'It's Allah's decree'" She imitated, as she rolled her eyes "Never mind all that though, their fake religious claims don't fool me. You know I will continue to visit you and help you with all I can. You just watch, when I get my law degree and take over the firm I will build shelters and homes and give back, not horde it all like my father." Razan ranted on with an ambitious twinkle in her eye. As she spoke a tear betrayed her sturdy facade, and Lamy was not one to miss it.

"Don't cry Razo, it's not your fault you're rich and we are not. Allah may not have directly blessed us with wealth, but he sends us you doesn't he." Lamy said as she stretched the edge of her muddy shirt to wipe the tears that were falling down Razan's cheeks.

"I know habibty, I know. But, I don't even think it's that. Remember the paper I told you I was going to write about your family, to talk about the injustice in our country. I didn't receive a good mark on it. I was so upset, I went to see the professor because I felt maybe he was a koz. But I was wrong! He really sees something in me, and he cares that I do my best. He isn't like the rest of them, he is seems strict and arrogant but underneath there is kindness and morals, I saw it all today!" Razan said, in admiration of the enlightening incident that took place earlier that morning. As she pulled the edges of her scarf to wipe the rest of her tears, the scarf slipped off of her head revealing her hair.

"Nice braid Razo! It's just like mine! Did you braid it yourself?" Lamy said, trying to divert the conversation and bring about a lighter topic.

"You don't miss a thing do you" Razan said, ticking Lamy with one hand as she pulled up her scarf with the other. "It's not quite like yours even though I tried to braid it the way you showed me. Anyways, it looks fine from a distance and maybe someone coming from far won't notice it's not as neat as yours. Maybe they will think we are sisters." Razan said giggling, as she pulled Lamy's braid and touched it to her own.

October 29, 2012

Tears of the Desert

"For two hours they held the school. They abused the girls in front of their friends, forcing them to watch what they were doing. Any girls who tried to resist were beaten in the head with sticks or rifle butts.
"Before they left, they spat on us and urinated on us," Sumiah whispered. "They said: 'We will let you live so you can tell you mothers and fathers and brothers what we did to you. Tell them from us: If you stay, the same and worse will happen to you all. Next time, we will show no mercy. Leave this land. Sudan is for the Arabs. It is not for black dogs and slaves'"          ~Tears of the Desert [Halimah Bashir]


As I read these words I blubbered up like a child as I came to realize that nothing I had gone through during my few years on this planet could possibly compare to the horror and grief those young girls must have experienced. But more than that I was utterly ashamed, because the author, a Darfurian of pure, African Zaghawa decent, blamed the Arabs for the horrific crimes committed against the people of Darfur, and somewhere in my heart I knew that she was not completely off. Halimah Bashir relays the atrocities committed by the Janjaweed onto young school girls between the ages of seven and thirteen. The Janjaweed are a coalition of gunmen from different Sudanese Arab tribes who have been employed to do the Sudanese government's "dirty work" in Darfur, and, recently, Eastern Chad. Surely, there aren't very many people who have not heard of the war ON Darfur (I say on because it is a war of terror, where the weaker entity is slowly, and fiercely being eliminated. Some have even gone so far as to call it a genocide, and who is to say it isn't at this point.) But the war in itself is an evasive topic many men before me have done a better job than I can ever attempt to do, trying to explain and describe it. As such, this piece might mention the war, but shall dwell on those who stand by idly watching it with little knowledge of the essence and meanings behind the oppression in Darfur.

The other day I was walking to class when  a stand bearing a large banner that read "Help the Women of Darfur!" bought my attention. I felt obliged to walk over and ask the two young American ladies what they were up to. Apparently they were supporting some aid organization by selling chap-sticks covered in the Super Man logo. Without thought, I quickly took out what money I had and handed it over to the wide-eyed blonde who was speaking. As I handed her the money I told her that I was Sudanese and had felt obliged to come here and "help" upon reading "Darfur" on their banner. The girl smiled, nodded and said "Oh", as she handed me a chap-stick and wished me a good day. Clearly she had no clue where Sudan or Darfur was, or how it was related to what they were doing, since she gave me a look that read "Why would you tell us this?". To her, this was just another African cause, for that distant, dark continent full of woes and misgivings. Upon further thought, I was confused, and I wondered if the few dollars I had just helped or harmed the humble people of Darfur. More likely than not, the money would not even make it to those who needed it the most, so I decided neither.

As such I wonder, when people refer to Darfur in their substantial speeches of crime and genocide, do they actually know what they are talking about or are they regurgitating the words of Komla Dumor from the BBC? Do they know that the Darfurians are Muslim? Why then are they trying to tell me that the war in Sudan is one of religion? Did they know that the Fur tribe of West Darfur are the original inhabitants of the Cushtic lands, and it is they who conquered lands east and north of present day Darfur to formulate the Kingdom of Cush? Did they know that the kingdom of Cush had managed to topple and rule over the Ancient Egyptians? Did you know that these same great peoples are today being called "black dogs and slaves" simply because they are of black African ethnicity? Did you know that they blame me and every other Arab Sudanese for the loss of their children, their parents, their homes, and their lives? I bet you didn't know they blame you too. The more questions I ask, the more enraged I feel coming up with answers that all point to inexcusable ignorance.

But I cannot point a finger at the world with out pointing three at my own people. For the man who claims Sudan is for the Arabs, I ask, do you speak on my behalf? For all I comprehend is that you are speaking with half a brain. Please make it clear to me, help me understand what tragic accident has caused you to forget your history? To forget who you are?! When the arabs crossed the Red Sea, do you think they saw the two shades of difference between you and the people of west or south Sudan? I assure you, they would have captured you and shipped you off to labor just as soon as they would have every other inhabitant of your land! If you claim the people of Darfur, the Nuba Mountains, and the South are black dogs, I beg of you to step beyond the borders of my dear continent to see that to the world, you are indistinguishable from those dogs.  So what gives you the right to run an entire peoples out of their homes, after torturing them and burning down their homes and towns? Who recognized you as a man of superior ethnicity when even to the Arabs you wish so eagerly to be like, you are just another khalanother black man.

Often, here in The States, when I tell people I am from Sudan, they usually nod and smile with a casual "Wow! You're a long way from home." But if they are knowledgeable enough, they might ask "The North or the South?"

This particular question stirs up ambivalent emotions in me, for despite my educated upbringings some part of me has been nurtured to associate the south with poverty, and dark, african features. Thus the first image that comes to mind at such a question, is one of a tall dark woman with bold African features and kinky hair. Not the complete opposite of what I am—short, with slightly lighter skin, mixed Arab-African features, and smooth hair. As I internally question how I could explain the differences that distinguish a Northern Sudanese from a Southern/Wester Sudanese without referring to color or sounding arrogant, I realize that our differences might as well be skin deep, for at the thought of the West or South of Sudan I only recall physical features. In reality we share much of a similar Sudanese culture, but the civil war has turned us against each other and widened the gap between our people. Furthermore, as I quickly respond, "I am from the North" people almost automatically reiterate with "Oh, the muslim part?" Yes, Northern Sudan is predominantly muslim but why is that they key identifier of the North? I feel there is nothing that binds Islam to the hate and injustice bestowed on the whole of Sudan by the merciless ruling party. In fact, within the people of the South there is a minority group of Muslims who have been targeted just like every other Christian. The war in Sudan is purely one of politicized spite, for surly the fight between the Darfurians and the Janjaweed cannot be one of religion. It angers me that the media, time and time again reduces it to Arab-vs-African when the different ethnic factions in Darfur have coexisted for ages. The rebels that stirred up a quarrel in Darfur were mainly reacting to the governments neglect, and the government found no other way to keep its hands clean than to play the "tribal card"

The international community seems to be eager to bestow the blame on Omar alBashir for the countless lives lost in western Sudan, but when push comes to shove every man turns his back and claims that getting involved might only make matters worse. So I wonder, what could be worse than to see your mothers and sisters raped and abused before your eyes? What could possibly be worse than having to live everyday with an abundance of fear in your heart, praying to God that your father won't be shot while you are made to watch, like that other boy with his dad from the village near by? I wonder— if Sudan had had as much natural resources as Afghanistan or Iraq, would that have elevated the country to a status worthy of humanity's help and compassion? By compassion I do not mean buy and sell chap-sticks, but to learn. Learn of the struggles in Sudan, Burma, Palestine, Afghanistan, Congo, and every other bleeding nation of the world. Learn about the problems that should concern you just as they do me, so that when you offer to donate money you know that your donations will reach its intended parties, and not be seized by radical, oppressive, militias somewhere along the way (later be used towards the funding of more weapons of mass murder and crime). Learn to be human, and say no one SHOULD be butchered, and driven out of their homes because of the way they were born! No one SHOULD be raped at the age of eight because the abuser thinks they are BLACK DOGS. And as such, there must be something to right the wrongs, because if it SHOULD NOT be happening, that means what is going on is not natural and there is a way to change it. There is a way to make a difference, and HELP. 

But for what little difference it might make, I cannot end this with out deeply and sincerely apologizing to the brave people of the diverse Sudan. I hear your cries, I feel your pain and I know that you think it is my fault. I know the Arab-speaking people have done you wrong many a times, but they are not my people, in fact they are merely nomadic savage beasts left behind by a cruel ancient time foreign to my own. I do not believe Sudan is for the Arabs, nor is it for the Africans. It is the home of the bridge atop which both ethnicities meet. It is home to the black, white, blue, brown, green, muslim, christian, animist, tall, short, fat, thin, diverse SUDANESE.

October 9, 2012

Civil to Savage

At some point in time man walked with a refined savagery to his step. He was a civilized ogre in the realm of beasts, easily distinguishable from the animals he preyed upon. His disheveled attire, tousled hair and mud-stained skin did not render him easy on the eyes, but he was a man. He did not hunt fellow men out of pure spite, but hunted to eat, and ate only enough to silence the mumbles of his ravished paunch. I imagine there was no question of greed, since the civilized beasts hunted in groups and every member received his or her fair share of the feast. Every man stood on his own ground, not on the grounds, or rather the heads, of other men.

Nature had built their homes, but when these homes failed to shelter them from that same nature's own capricious winds, they simply left. Thus I wonder, were their souls not attached to the caves that housed them? Why did they not fight the force to maintain their grounds? How did they simply resign? How is it that they  were in full comprehension of the fact that some day those same capricious winds might find them in their next home, only to say: you must go back to where we met prior, since it is my time to sweep this region of its current state. 

What is it that the textbooks are not telling me? For I know they keep a secret from me, since the men in question are not animals as history suggests. They have stories aesthetically documented on the walls of their numerous god-given homes. They seem to have loved enough to come together and create more refined beasts. They seemed to have had some sort of community governed by the primitive laws of humanity. Albeit, they could not fly or keep time, nor did they have a Facebook and retain an ice box that could guarantee they would not go hungry tomorrow, they seem to have had minds. Brains that, despite their primitive state, did not allow power to fog their internal moral radars. They did not learn of human rights, nor were they policed by super-national global organizations. Simply, the refined ogre sought resources but only took what he needed. It did not occur to man that he had any right to seize that which belonged to another because I believe he knew, somewhere in his heart, that nature was generous. It simply could not give one man with out compensating for the right of another.

As such, these men I know of in the age of globalization appall me, for I fail to understand what they are made of or which breed of animal fathered such brutality. Adam was made of the earth and thus cherished it, but these men scorch land, and all that walks upon it, in utter carelessness. Their minds have succeeded to create modern means of convenience, but somewhere along time they seem to have traded in those brains, along with their hearts, for rocks. In fact, it may even be that they gifted their brains to some devil, for I do not know of a rock that could kill two million people in a few months. I do not comprehend the nature of that which drives man to fight with such viciousness for the right remain within a community that detests and repels him.

In vain I look to the scholars for answers to these inquiries, but they all point me to the refined ogre we stemmed off from. They tell me power is inconsiderate, blind, and chaotic. It corrupts all who embrace it, and after it engulfs their souls, it calls upon greed to join it. Then they say, it is merely human nature, my child. That is where they lose me. 

"Well, were Cain and Able not brothers? Did blood not kill blood?" They question me, claiming my confusion is out of place.

"Yes", I say. "But is the love of a woman not a noble cause incomparable to the love for power? A woman can love you back, but what reciprocal does power offer?"

"Oh my child, you speak with naivety! As is expected from a young soul who has not lived to learn. Have you not heard of the elevated stature power grants a man? Can you not see that to have power is to command fear in the hearts of others, to the extent that you rise above all. And from that exalted pedestal, my child, one can have all the women his heart desires!"

I am at awe...

"But what good is standing on a pedestal raised to height by the corpses of men murdered only to maintain said power? What good is stature when you only incite fear, to the effect that you become detached from humanity? Even the lion knows not to prey on his fellow coterie, and doesn't he continue to retain the title of King?"

"But you must understand that humans are more complex as a result of an intricate global society"

"If man is so esteemed, how is it that he does not create his society, as oppose to the vice-versa you speak of? In fact, he does and it is he who chooses to mold society from a convoluted clay."

I do not understand, nor do I wish to. I believe I am merely nostalgic for a time preceding mine by infinite centuries. As the rest of the world stands by idly watching, I can do nothing but apologize.

I apologize, dear Syria, that they refuse to hear your cries. It seems that to be re-elected and to maintain power is much more valuable than the blood of all your children combined. I understand you, for my people cry in vain too. THEY did not hear the whimpers of Darfur before you, nor the screeches of Rwanda before them so do not hold your breath for grace now. Excuse them, for they are color blind,  and bloody red does not fall within the spectrum of their sight. You and I do not have enough black gold to buy their attention. Basheer and Bashar do not hold appeals the magnitude of Saddam's. As such we must cry, and bleed, and die to prove that we are not animals. It is human nature to fight for survival for even our ancestral civilized ogres were faced with savage beasts much stronger, albeit they used to be furrier beasts, the ones you face today are indeed one and the same. Do not be fooled by their ability to walk on twos! They do not cry like we do, they do not eat what we do, they do not feel like we do, they are not of our same species. 

I would say be patient and that after every rain comes sunshine, but nature has failed to explain to me the origins of these "men". They are not habitual to the humane world you and I hail from. Indeed they are savage foreigners ungoverned by the moral norms that bind you and I, and as such I do not know how long they will execute their ill-guided ways upon your poor, burdened souls. 

But till you gain refuge, I apologize!

October 6, 2012

The Prayer

Alsalato khayron men alnawm (prayer is better for you than slumber).


Asha woke up to the call for prayer. She sluggishly crawled out of bed and washed her ankles in preparation to answer the mu'azin's hail.


"Assalamu 'Allaykum W Rahmato Allah, Assalamu Assalamu 'Allaykum W Rahmat Allah."

She then lifted her hands and began to plead,

"Ya Allah, today I ask that you bless my three sons, Ahmed, Ali and Tareq, and aid my husband Mohamed in his journey to sustain us. Oh Allah, funds are scarce and food is scant, but we thank you for the gracious gifts of family, health, love and life! Oh Allah, may all those who endanger the lives of my young boys repent to you. I ask that you guide them to the path beloved by you. As such, may the essence of humanity overcome the vicious deeds of the cruel men who infest these lands.  Peace and blessings be upon Mohammed. Amen!"

The sun began to peak over the horizon as Asha stroked the beads of her rosary. Thoughts meshed and unfolded themselves onto her mental to-do list as her mouth idly moved to create whispers of praises to her Lord. That was they way things had become recently. She had no time to act now and think later, and she could not afford to act without thinking. Be it the steps she took to her bakery, or the funds, if any, that she decided to dedicate to a supermarket's visit, or even the cinch act of tossing the polyester shams of her thobe over her head. None of it was done without careful consideration. Life was tedious and doleful but she managed to persevere. She had heard of the mother and the daughter raped three blocks away from her humble home. She could see the face of the shy mother now. I wish I'd said hello to her the other day, maybe if I had wished her a blessed day…

Tareq, her youngest son, interrupted her thoughts with a finger on her shoulder. It was time for her day to begin. Thus she arose, and set her folded prayer mat aside, apt as ever, to carry out the obligations of another dutiful day.

As her sons were dressed and seen off to school she went back into the kitchen and took a peak into her boiling pot of 'Adass. She smiled to herself as she remembered the old Sudanese sayings that bestowed the titles of "the Nation's Sustainers"and "Kings of the Dinning Table" on mere dishes of lentils and red beans. Indeed, those two seem to be the only consumer products who have the nation's best interest at heart. Inflation has caused everything else on the racks to play with numbers in a way that could make the most esteemed engineer cry. As she stirred the yellowing seeds, her husband appeared from behind her kitchen's windows. With a smile and a wave he set off, leaving Asha appreciating his strength. She did not remember the last time a smile commenced her day. But she was alive, she reminded herself, that is what is important.


By noon the day's cooking and cleaning had been dejectedly carried out. She decided it had been a while since her neighbor, Hafsa, had come by for coffee. As such, she took it upon herself to brew a pot of coffee and make her way next door.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Asha ducked for cover as her pot of coffee carelessly flew in the air and allowed its contents to stain the dry, sand floors and Asha's thobe alike. It was that time of day again, which was to be marked by a dreaded routinely visit from a few governmental planes. The planes made unannounced appearances and gifted the tenants of Darfur with bombs embodying chemicals unheard of to the average townsfolk. As soon as the ground beneath her knees stopped shaking Asha curiously rushed to find the area the Kezan visited today. She prayed to God that nothing had happened to Hafsa, since Asha believed that she was growing to become some sort of taboo on her people. Everyone she touched, spoke to, or even remembered seemed to disappear. She had lost so many acquaintances that she began to wonder if she played some part in laying them onto harm's way, or if maybe fate was playing some twisted game with everyone. She did not like this game where she won to watch her loved ones lose, and be eliminated from the playing field.

THUD-THUD! THUD-THUD!

Her heart pounded hard, rebelling against what suddenly became too small a chest. Her head spun as her screams meshed and became one with those of the women and children around her. The feet which had carried her for 47 years suddenly failed to function and she collapsed to become one with the earth she was created from. It was sudden, and before she could comprehend what was happening, her last breath escaped her lips taking with it her soul. They bid the world farewell and rose to join the souls of Mohamed, Tareq, Ahmed and Ali, whose blood-spattered body parts lay an arm distance away from their mother's corpse, indistinguishable from the fur and remains of the exploded animals beside them.

Not today Asha, your prayers will not be answered today because Allah has decreed that you and your family leave this cruel land to a place pure, and high, befitting your humble souls.