I'm good at
Detailed empty
Conversations
That make me
Feel empty
In detail

-At least they are comfortable

So tell me
Do you drink
Because you're empty
Or are you empty
Because you drink

-numb alcoholic

Don't be alarmed when

Introverted polite 

Strangers 

Acquaintances 

Tell you their deepest secrets 

Don't hate them

Maybe they held onto darkness 

Alone

For six years 

Lend them your heart 

Lend them your heart 

Lend them your heart 

Lend them your full heart 

For they might not remember tenderness 

-Lonely

They were empty
So first they ate us
(and we let them)
Then they decided
They were still hungry
So they ate themselves too
And now there's nothing left
Just the words they use
To fill the emptiness
"Mountains of liberation"

[and we believe them]

-Power

To Imagine an Undefined Liberation.

There were two white women. One questioning my Bangladeshi friend about why she wears the hijab, wondering if Kolkatta and Bangladesh are two separate countries. Told her to use the Google machine. Upon one of my classmate's insistence, another hijabi, I explained the Partition of '47, the War of '71. Tired, I thought, if I did not make the deliberate decision to educate myself on my country’s history, I would be spouting out the accounts that my family has put together over the years – an invaluable inheritance, but a limited one all the same. Although I am looked to as a reference for Indian history, no one, no education system, equips me with the knowledge I need to educate myself and others. This is how the system inflicts violence on third world and colored bodies. We are brought in, in times of fascination, as points of reference and just as quickly, we are ignored, shoved back into the shadows. We are left trapped in a maze, like mice, looking at only what is in front of us and nothing more. Lost. Education allows us to rise above the tricky alleyways and illusionary dead ends—it gives us the words we need to articulate and understand how history has betrayed us and how we continue to betray history. Though I am still working to escape the confines of this trap, to know that white prodding is also a form of injustice and a tentacle of the overarching system for the Otherized student means my hands have discovered and are slowly unraveling one dimension of this artificial maze.

The other white woman’s laptop brandished a laptop sticker, “Well behaved women rarely make history,” but in reality, it is only ever well-behaved cunning white women who make history, because history is written by them and their white associates. Everyone else is treated as accessories, as condiments, to be put in or to be left out when stirring the white history soup. When and if we are included, we melt into whiteness, like salt in water, we become invisible, disappear, look just like them. You can taste us, but only to the degree that the white scholar wants to taste us. Anything beyond that, we are trashed, dumped out, offered to the vultures. The same ones circling over our hearts and minds. Watching our actions and our words. Any swift movements. Waiting to pick apart anything worth eating, so that we are forced to keep secret anything we believe is worth knowing. We cannot brandish it or speak on it, with the fear that if we are found out, our vulture friends and colleagues will surely consume us. Without warning.

I am struggling to understand the idea of a safe space, when even when we rip out our hearts and offer them to our kinfolk, we still risk the possibility of being trampled over for the sake of white validation. This trauma and this vulnerability indicate that we must look beyond skin politics. Though whiteness is stripping us and though our home is with our racial community, oftentimes, we find these lines violate one another – and we find that even in the arms of our Brown sisters and brothers, there are traps and cages set up to clamp down on our skin. To leave us exposed. It leaves me wondering, where can I go? To be understood and to be the authentic me. To move beyond my skin, but to also be liberated by it. Where I can find a mazeless land, untroubled by vultures.

Sometimes we forget that
Raising wolves to be gentle
Makes them gentle wolves
Its raising wolves to be accountable
That makes them men

-Your softness is not enough

He thinks he’s wooed me. He thinks he is a gentleman. Dashing,charming, courting. The flowers. The impromptu tickets to no where and everywhere. He thought his days of effort and work had plateaued when she helped unzip his pants, car windows fogging up, breath speeding up.

He pulls out of a kiss, whispers, "I love you." There’s pride in his voice-not the kind of pride that carries arrogance-but the kind of pride the little five year old neighbour holds in his voice after his first bike ride without falling. I smile, eyes crinkled, laugh lines deepening. There is a desperate yearning to hear the words like my lungs are finally filling with oxygen. Quite literally-it isn’t a great feeling-it burns through you like a good scotch and oh, oh, ohhh, it is so painfully good. What is it about a complete stranger’s love that we crave so much? How do we grow up being loved unconditionally and yet are willing to throw away everything and everyone we love for a nobody-for somebody else’s somebody?

In the ever dark and twisted place that is my mind one would presume I’d be more skeptical in my response; at the very least in the way I respond. But I reply with the eagerness of a puppy-the inner me flinches. The overpowering need to be touched from inside is too strong-that void that’s chronically starving to be filled; that is why I say, "I love you too" with conviction.

I know with utmost certainty that he does not love me. Absolutely. Does. Not. I’m a force to be reckoned with. I say that with no pride. Rather it is with shame and disgust-the appropriate word here would be overwhelming. I am positively, unceremoniously overwhelming. Take it how you may.

It has always been a choice of being in or out. There is no dipping your toes at the edge of the water to see if you’ll adjust to my temperature. You dive into the unknown, whether that’s the coldest chambers of my heart or the hottest flames of my amygdala (the region of the brain responsible for love, angsts and other fucks).

How do I tell him he only likes me? Without sounding condescending? Pretentious, haughty. I am after all undoubtedly condescending, pretentious and haughty on the best of days. He likes sex with me. He likes the idea of me. He is flirting with the idea of loving the idea of me. But me? No no no, he does not love me. Most people like or even love the idea of me. But the reality is so much uglier. Not the ugly-beautiful kind of ugly. The kind of ugly that makes you feel guilty. The kind you can’t make eye contact with. And no one likes to feel guilty like they’re tip-toeing on egg shells in the crevices and cracks of life where they want to feel most comfortable.

What he wants is sex. And love. But without the love. But my love, it’s conjoined twin is intensity. It hits you hard; so painful you may even like it if you like to get spanked. Joke. My humour is warped-part of that dark and twistiness.

I am all consuming. Fire. And I want a love that is all consuming. Anything short of that is a friend with benefits. Not even a good friend with benefits; it’s the kind of benefits where you’re actually getting more ripped off being in the union-your dues get you nothing.

Why has emotional intimacy become the hardest hurdle to surpass? I feel like a common whore pushed to the streets after you fucked me. See. Intense. Over whelming. I know. But tell me, what is the difference between me and the whore if you are able to show me shamelessly and effortlessly every inch of your carcass, able to exchange unknown bodily fluid with me without question but spit me out when I want to exchange feelings? Oh right, the whore gets paid. Dark and twisty. Dark and twisty. Dark and twisty.

I am admittedly arrogant. Vain. My demeanour is arrogant even when my intentions are not. And with that, let me tell you I am perspicacious. I hate it. It is a curse and a double-edged sword. How do you see the bigger picture and then sit around waiting for everyone else to catch up? (She said so humbly).


-while we're on the subject can we change the subject now

8 Reasons Drake is a more palatable candidate than all the existing candidates:

1. He’s a person of colour

2. Related to 1 above, he wears his beard in solidarity with the plight of Muslims. In fact rumour has it that is name is actually Drake Mohammed Drizzy but he keeps his half Muslim identity under wraps to win the election.

3. He has shown considerable on the ground work for lower and lower-middle class Muslims in important political initiatives like subsidizing Habibiz Sheesha Lounge, proving that he does not believe that Muslim Middle Eastern practices are barbaric and is open to supporting the larger multiculti agenda

4. He is aware of the plight of people with disabilities given that he was shot in Degrassi and has been stuck in a wheelchair until the drop of his first album

5. Related to this, Drake does not show stigma to people with mental health issues and has stated publicly that he was “running through the six with his woes” and “you know how that [stuff] goes”, illustrating that he is not only able to work with the rest of us in federal policies that will mediate the degenerative mental health effects of capitalism, but that he has experienced them

6. He performed in Ryerson as a show of solidarity with students because he started from the bottom now he’s here [and he knows that #osap #struggle]

7. He bases his stances and initiatives that relate to women, specifically women of colour on recommendations that his partner, Serena Williams has made. Serena Williams does not acknowledge shrieking white fans but she does acknowledge fans of colour based on years of racial antagonism on the field

8. I’m just saying he can do better

How is the manspread 

Any different from any act of violence 

If it makes you stay still

And hold your breath 

Until the end of the ordeal

-Harmless Masculinity

When they ask 
Tell them I miss home 
Like I miss a love gone bad 
I don’t miss you 
I miss the love 
I miss who you were 
We decayed and flourished 
We had to leave for us to grow 
Just caught glimpses of each other 
I had to be gone 
But nothing will ever taste 
Like your first love

-For Kenya 

Long hours and
Low compensation
and Low levels of
exposure to sunshine
Make us sore and raw
Not our bodies
As much as our souls

-for women who stopped smiling years ago

Don't climb your way to glory 

On the carcasses of those who held you

And expect the pile of skulls 

Not to fall in on itself

Bones were deliberately built to disintegrate 

Unless nourished with truth

Is there anything more untrue 

Than digging out what belongs under the earth

To climb to the skies?

Where are You going, love? 

-Down to Earth ft. beautiful souls 

SEARCHING FOR A HOME WITHOUT WAR.

July 7, 2015aminnasyedAfghanistan1 CommentEdit

I was born in Kandahar, Afghanistan in 1967. I have an older brother and sister and one younger brother and two younger sisters. My father was a well respected prosperous progressive minded business man. The Afghanistan I grew up in was stable, peaceful, and rapidly progressing economically. We had the best airlines. As a kid I wanted to become an engineer when I grew up.

In 1973 when I was only 6 years old I remember we were in Kandahar, Afghanistan listening to the radio. All the regular programs that normally played were cut off. The military were issuing statements with some music playing in the background. Finally, it was announced that there had been a coup. The former present of Afghanistan, Mohammed Doud Khan had been disposed of by the Communist People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan. A few days later, we found out that the president, along with the rest of his family (with the exception of one niece) had been killed.

The communists started filling up the government seats. They came up with issuing decrees every month or two with new rules and regulations mainly towards economic reforms and political structures. They declared they were going against the “feudalist society” and “backwards Islamic thought”. They started introducing a very communist oriented secular ideologies and systems. This new government was not welcomed by the people. They saw it as foreign and definitely did not represent Afghans. The communists knew this and started cracking down on anyone they assumed was unsympathetic to their way of thinking. People were arrested for no cause, people started disappearing, there were raids into people’s houses in the middle of the night. My father was an influential man in Kandahar and he was vocal about his dislike of the new government. Once the government heard about this, they started harassing him. They had actually come to our house to arrest him twice but he was out of town so they missed him. A lot of his friends started disappearing.

In 1979, my father passed away. He had a heart attack due to the intense pressure and stress he was under. In that same year, the Russians invaded Afghanistan. By there was a civil war going on mainly in rural areas of Afghanistan. People were resisting the government which scared the Russians. When the invasion happened, the conflict transformed into a war. People started taking up arms and joining the Mujahideen to fight against the Russians. The war escalated into the cities. The communist government became desperate to recruit personnel for their army. They started conscripting anyone male who had an able body as young as the age of 13. They tried to conscript us too. By this time I had two married sisters. One in Kabul and the other in Pakistan. My eldest brother, mother, and younger sister went into hiding while my younger brother and I made the intention to flee to Canada. We paid a Pakistani smuggler around $200 USD (which today is equivalent to $10,000 USD). He took us from Afghanistan into Pakistan in a car. It was just my younger brother, me, and one of my uncle’s. We by passed the border security and arrived in Quetta. We stayed here for a few days and then set off for Karachi. My family in Afghanistan eventually joined us here too however, they did not want to flee to Canada with us. They felt the war would eventually stop and they could return to Afghanistan. My brother and I felt otherwise. The Pakistani government wasn’t very friendly to us. There was no school, no jobs, we wanted to get out. We had decided on Canada because we had heard they were welcoming refugees, very multicultural, and was a peaceful country. We waited in Pakistan until the smuggler had gotten all of our papers and passport ready. I was 18 and only knew a little bit of English while my brother was 17 when we hopped on a plane to come to Canada. I felt happy to leave Pakistan because it didn’t offer us anything but I was also upset with our situation. Our lives had turned completely upside down because of the war. We used to own businesses, had an income, and go to school, now there was nothing.

We arrived in Montreal, Canada in 1985. I saw someone with a uniform on. I didn’t know who he was or what position he had but I stopped him and told him we were refugees. He then directed us to someone else who took us to immigration. We stayed in a refugee hostel for the first few months. There were a few other afghans there. A week later my cousin had also arrived. He eventually left Montreal for Toronto because of more employment opportunities. My sister and her husband and two children from Pakistan also came to Montreal not too long after we did. We all stayed in one apartment. My brother and I got a $150 allowance each from the government. We started to look for work. I didn’t speak too much English but I could read signs. I found out where some manufacturing sites were and started going from site to site to see if there was employment opportunities. I eventually landed a job at a t-shirt printing company that paid what was then minimum wage ($4/hour). My brother got a similar job in another textile company. I hopped from job to job trying to look for better pay. At one point I worked in paint company but had to leave because I had an allergic reaction to the paint (all my body hair fell off). We lived in poverty. My brother eventually enrolled in a college and then went to university to study engineering. I was suffering from depression and was in no state to go to school. My sister and her husband and family eventually left back for Pakistan in 1986. I moved to Ontario in to find better employment opportunity. I moved in with some distant family. I was working and living with them until 1989. That year I went back to Pakistan and got married. I came back not long after the wedding and sponsored my wife. 6 months later she arrived in Canada. We lived together with my cousin who I had shared a hostel with in Montreal. My first child was born. After my second child was born in 1992, I moved to western part of the GTA. There were no Afghans here, they all lived in the eastern end. My brother moved from Montreal to live with me after he got an engineering job in Toronto. I moved from job to job trying to find a stable job that made ends meet. Up until 1998 I worked as a pizza delivery man, working night shifts, living off of welfare and I still hardly made ends meet. Finally in ’98 (after my 3rd child was born), I got a job at a manufacturing company that paid much better than a pizza delivery man.

During the 2008 recession I was laid off from my job. I decided that I should own my own business instead so, in partnership with a distant family member, I bought a franchise. The business was a complete failure. I was working 70-80hrs a week just barely making it run and making ends meet. I enjoyed the customers I had but it was a draining job and the head office was a nightmare. I sold it in 2013 and am currently working for a small manufacturing company. I have 3 girls. 2 have graduated from university and one just graduated from high school and is entering university in the fall. I find the Canada I am in today is nothing like the Canada that welcomed me in. I am thankful that I am settled now and am no longer stuck in the newcomer stage because if I was, than I would be suffering greatly as the current conservative government is very xenophobic. On top of that, Canada isn’t very good at creating jobs for the low-income folks like me. They are getting rid of manufacturing jobs and replacing them with only part-time or very low paid jobs. All I want is for my kids to have stable jobs and be positive contributors to society. People from my part of the world like sons but I don’t like sons. I like my girls.

-Ahmad

https://citizensofwarproject.wordpress.com

the nostalgia of refugees

the nostalgia of refugees
stifled, forgotten, censored
occasionally resurfaces after dinner
we swallow our disdain for outdated ideas and traditions
as they recall a distant memory
of home and childhood
of war and leaving
of bankruptcy and cabbie moments
our parents
belittled for spelling mistakes and elementary education
sit before us
confessing life's betrayals
over green tea and pastries
making light of all that this country has done to them
and once they realize how vulnerable they've become
they turn to us
cursing in jest and in panic
the motherland
the youth
all things stolen

Dying people are much like living people
They laugh like us
They get angry like us
Throw tantrums
Snidely whisper to their friends during conversations and dress up for weddings
Dying people are much like living people
Sometimes they grab you and make you promise you will make duaa for them
Suddenly declare their appreciation for you even if it is not in their nature
They stop having frivolous conversations
Listen,  listen,  nod affirmatively and furrow their brows skeptically but don't say much
They pray more and pray for you
To find a man who will watch you when I'm gone and to find a stable job
To get your masters and start a business.
Recite Quran and pray tahajjud
Make long sujoods and collapse into tears
Dying people are much like living people
They leave you for years after with only the silence in the pit of your heart
The silence you got accustomed to when they started dying.

PolitcalScienceOsphere

I feel like lately my posts have been really intense.
So today I thought I'd post one like the ones I used to post blogyears ago [see http://diasporadefiance.blogspot.ca/2015/01/i-havent-thought-of-good-enough-title.html and http://diasporadefiance.blogspot.ca/2014/10/when-identity-politics-becomes-abusive.html];

Today's post will be a cross-section analysis on the typical Political Science/Comn Studies student. Actually I lie. I will be looking at all the types I encountered and hopefully this will resonate with folks. If not, then hopefully You'll at least find this humorous. I'm going to make these accounts really specific, but I'm sure the characteristics of the people listed below will be familiar. Also all accounts are fictitious. I've blended people because I don't need any new enemies right before ramadhan. Pray for me y'all. I need prayers.

Anyway here's the list:

1. The Sexy Professor
The sexy professor is everything You ever wanted in a man except unattainable because he's not actually real. He's just incredibly brilliant and charismatic and somehow You think that will translate into an egalitarian and revolutionary domestic relationship. Your relationship with this man is likely almost identical to my relationship with Stromae. Nonexistent.
(However, it is extra fun when you are teachers pet and flirt shamelessly with Professor Sexy. It never got that formidable with Stromae. Sadtimes)
[Also maybe 90% of that sex appeal actually has to do with the fact that you are a master of course material and you're actually an egomaniac who enjoys validation. Ownit (c)]

2. The Shitty Professor
You know what? I've appreciated really racist, sexist professors BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T KNOW. And so I translated my microaggressions into endearment and moved on. Sometimes You have to do that in the real world. However, the shitty professor is arrogant and will not take critique against his ideas and is an unreasonable marker, and talks a lot of shit about other academics then your semester will be like travelling through mordor while racialized. Worst of all, he will destroy, masacre, pillage your self confidence and you're not at a fru fru Liberal Arts University for that. I don't even mind disorganized profs. I mind arrogant, snippy assholes. The part where all the racialized people were deported or killed in LOTR had to be edited out because white audiences.

3. The Model Minority
Y'all when I go to class I search, hard, with my eyes racing from corner to corner, hastily, painfully, for another [Racialized] {Hijabi}. The worst thing in the WORLD is finding yourself next to a [racialized] {hijabi} to find out her dad owns the oilsands and she actually hates communism because I don't understand why I would work hard if I wasn't going to benefit for all the effort I put in. These days I just argue with [racialized] {hijabi} because...well, why not? Life is short and boring. You can't please everyone. Please the T.A when it means participation marks. Where else do You find the mental stimulation of the classroom anyway? It just gets awkward when the cordiality transcends the classroom and the awkward hi happens in the hallways and all that jazz. Honestly though sometimes you become friends. But we'll talk about spreading the struggle to the community some other time.

4. Fake deep whiteboy sam
Okay. Let us first take a moment to THANK THE DIETIES [incl. Karl Marx bc #inclusivity] for gun control in Canada [even though really the only ones who actually needed it was the police]. Fake deep whiteboy Sam...needs to die. He understands everything about intersectionality and you know, race, gender, sexuality, trans theory. The key word here is theory. Fake deep whiteboy Sam wants to indulge everyone who, in his view, grasps intersectional race gender sexuality trans theory to the same academic and intellectual level as him. He wants to take the time to play the devils advocate for these nuanced discussions. FDWS believes in the struggle. Except for the part where he allows anyone else, including the racialized gendered t.a to say a word. Death to FDWS.

5. Tiffany
Tiffany is the white girl who will make friends with you out of convenience. Tbh I don't mind Tiffany all the time. She's neutral enough to remain friends with you even after you declare Your views which often don't co-incide with hers because to her you're not 100% human anyway to her. You're just a cute little hi ja bee and she's happy she has multicultural friends. 'friends'. But anyway she sends you notes when you need them and sits beside you and laughs at your jokes and its nice and superficial. It just gets annoying when the weight of this superficial friendship is tipped her way. Idk I'm pretty good at having it balanced and ignoring messages and coming up with sad rationales regarding why I didn't respond ("We don't have electricity in India. I take a helicopter home every night. My Dad is a famous yoga sheikh")

6. The Llllladies Man
I always seem to get tricked into believing what ladies men say. I always end up gushing and believing. But again, it's a superficial relationship, like a lot of the friendships you make in any institutional set up. In a just world, the Ladies man would have had his penis chopped off and would have been left in indentured servitude to pay for babysitters for his 17 lovechildren and would be socially stigmatized. However, at university, he is typically found with one to three women at any time, laughing, posing in pictures, having intense conversations about their personal lives. "Intense conversations about their personal lives". Because a lot of time people hate each other and just hang out because they are lonely and empty and sad and need people to fill that space up and sometimes it seems like all LMs friendships are like that. LM makes women feel important and special. He's charming. He's hot. He gets on with everyone. And he goes places because of these attributes.

7. The Style Godess
The Style Godess basically dresses like she stepped out of Vogue Hipster edt. on a student budget. SG is serious. Her outfits are usually so well put together and creative you wonder when how where FIREWORKS FIREWORKS IS THAT A RED CARPET?! Props just appear around her and rose petals just start ascending onto her at random. Sometimes you try to replicate her outfits and fail. Other times you buy her entire wardrobe and wear it forevermore but the props never seem to find themselves in your space. I thank God for the Style Godess often because I love aesthetic.

8. The Two faced slime
You can never know with the TFS. She has low self esteem and translates that into gossip gossip gossip and hate. She usually has an army behind her who somehow backs her up--for no reason at all but without them she is nobody. She expects absolute and uncritical allegiance or you're not going to be friends. On some days TFS loves you--and on others she ignores you. Often this depends on who she's chilling with. Her political views are like that too. She just restates whatever she hears people say--so long as it sounds smart--but she doesn't know what she's on about half the time. Because she's inconsistent.

9. The arrogant leader
The arrogant leader was nobody once and you were friends. However, he found power one day and that ended your friendship. He has at least 7000 facebook friends and he doesn't know half his "subordinates" but he doesn't bother either because power is an ugly thing. He ignores people when they are talking to him while absently nodding and flashing a smile and nodding and tries very hard to impress those who are more powerful then him because this man is ambitious and knows exactly how to move up. Usually he's your best friend during election time or during campaigns and he loves to have some good selfies with the people so that he looks like a man of the people. But really he's a man of the dollar $igns and that deci$ion making autonomy.

Anyway.
Let me think of other prototypes.
Until then thanks for reading this.
Please make duaa that I get into a masters program so I can critique more stuff for y'all.

Toodle oo.
-AK

I feel so very empty. Let’s fill each others voids and feel even emptier until there’s nothing left. Let’s pretend we can complete each other the way they tell us we can. Let’s pretend we are totally compatible and we never drive each other to the point of madness. Let’s pretend we never betrayed each other with our words and silences. Let’s pretend it’s not the depression. It’s not the existential crises. It’s not the boredom. Let’s fill the silences. It’s not the self esteem issues. Let’s send those late night texts and go on expensive dates let’s pretend we are impressed let’s drown it with marijuana and rambling and shisha and music. Let’s pretend this works. We aren’t choking. We aren’t suffocating. It’s love. It’s love. It’s love.

-We kept eating each other

Let's take a moment to appreciate all the mothers[/caregivers] that have built civilizations everywhere;

Let's take a moment to appreciate the ones who have lost children to police brutality;
Who have had to take up work that dehumanizes them to lift their children out of murky waters;
Who have crossed precarious borders;
Who have burnt borders;
Who have faced incarceration;
Who have faced marginalization;
Who have been abused;
Who misplace their anger;
Who make mistakes;
Who make art;
Who are art;
Who have complicated relationships with their partners;
Who fight for us;
Who break binaries;
Who build knowledge;

And let us take a moment to pray for those mothers[/caregivers] who have done their time on this Earth. May God grant them the highest level of paradise and may God ease the difficulties who are going through loss right now. Women are so freaking great.

buoyant

When I think of home, I see the sea. I do not know what it means to feel like I belong more in water than I do on land. Bayu, my motherland, was named after the wind god Vayu, who scattered Sanskrit into Malay, daughters into diaspora. Sometimes I ask Vayu to tell me more of his antics when he blew my great-grandfather away from Khyber Pass and left a void in two worlds. Sometimes I ask him if he remembers teasing my mother's hair before she wore the hijab to answer a Call louder than any man's command. At times, I understand the wind more than anyone else because his tongue is always shifting. It only took me two years to cultivate an accent. See, I can be British, North American, regional creole, but only in my mouth. My face is too foreign to belong in one culture. Neither here nor there. When I put my hands in baba's and it's just us walking together at the market, I am either his mistress, or an adopted child. There is no resemblance, they say, so you must not be his. When I strut alongside my mother crossing the street, we are either carbon copies or sisters, but always 'other'. There is too much resemblance, they say, but too brown to be Malay, too strange to belong. But we all speak the same language, so I guess we are allowed to pretend that we are indeed, home.

for farkhunda

what compels a man

to do the things he does

what poison enters his heart

that makes him so cruel to me

even when i shield my face from him

he still finds a way 

to hurt parts of me i cannot see

dear man

when the rivers went dry

we wept until you had enough to drink

and when your stomach ached from hunger

we cut from our flesh

until you were satisfied

and when the foreigners came for you

we stretched out our bodies to defend you

and when they murdered you

we raised our hands to the heavens

and prayed for you

and when they spoke ill of you

we rallied the entire country 

to honour you

dear man

when you said to us

every soul will taste death

we did not know 

it is only in death

a woman's soul will finally feel peace

another fucking poem on finding “home” in the “third space”

if i wrote a love letter 
to the diaspora it would break
every word count undo 
every border erase
every dictionary definition unravel 
every noun/verb/adjective 
and unwrite itself 
no colonial tongue was made to 
describe or translate or sustain 
the pain trauma love
that is lived with every 
fractured   severed   healing diasporic breath

untitled

praying for erosion of borders
like praying for rain
both come naturally
with time

Hello FAM!

Hey Everyone!

Firstly, how are we doin'?

We eating?
Bathing?

If we haven't done any of these things stop reading and get to that ASAP.

I just got asked to join this blog and contribute to the strong souls and minds who grace the blogverse.

1. I am so honoured
2. I am scared shitless
3. but- REALLY EXCITED!

I wanted to just tell everyone a little bit about myself so that we can all know what to sort of expect on this journey that we are about to embark on together.

I am Black.
I identify as a Womxn.
I am muslim.
I identify as femme.
I curse.
I drink.
I laugh- a lot

These are the things that are the most important to me at this time in my life. Living within white supremacy and trying to survive I am constantly diving into what this all means and how I can protect my mental and physical space in a world that demands that it be ripped apart and burned. I take solace in the story of my ancestors and the history of the blood that runs through my veins (My roots are in Ethiopia btw). While wearing crazy colours in my hair, telling folks to "take a seat, and watch greatness work" and having twerk pits with my chosen family in my living room, I am a ratchet revolutionary.

Wait what?

Yea, your read right.

I am a ratchet revolutionary.

I can listen to horrible trap music, wear black lipstick and break down the spiritual warfare that is happening on radicalized people while getting a fill in on my acrylic tips.

A Ratchet Revolutionary is someone who is not afraid to engage customs of black folk which are constantly appropriated by white mainstream media. They indulge in dirty south rap while catching a flight to Jah Cure. They remember those who are in the hood and use accessible language for everyone but know how to use the language of Neo-Liberalism to defy those actively questioning their existence.
They are black.
They are flawless.
They are intellectually capable of reads that scalp the likes of anyone who dares to fight their movements.
Not afraid to get knuck but always ready to theorize and explore the themes of post traumatic slave disorder.
They live within afro-futurism.
They believe in fully accessible physical, emotional and mental spaces.

This is who I am.

I am fucking awesome.

We are about to talk about real things and learn together.

Intersectionality (how our experiences overlap)
Racism (the fuckery that people of colour have to live within)
Misogony/ Misogynoir (The theory of hatred toward womxn/black womxn)
Anti-Black Racism (black folk get it the worst everywhere, basically)

and a lot more.

Sometimes it might Poetry.
Sometimes it might be essays.
Sometimes just a question.
Who knows- let's just go with it.

I just wanted to let you know who I am right now as I am always moving and growing so that you can know what to expect from me.

Alright- I'm out.

Till we meet in love,
AlSymone  

Song of the day: 

So Fresh, So Clean 

OutKast

https://youtu.be/-JfEJq56IwI

Tongues

At first
I desired
a lover,
who spoke
my tongue
so we could
be closer.
But you
spoke to me
in a thousand
hidden tongues.
Clairvoyantly,
in silences,
in glances,
in touches,
in absence.
You taught me
languages,
of lovers
from the wake of dawn
in ways I will never speak
to anyone again.

Lost

Like broken glass she stood, shattered. Her presence spread across the room in smithereens, pieces big and small sharp, jagged and piercing ricocheting off the walls, no where to escape.
She stood, sobbing,heaving-yearning for kindness. Anything that resembled humanity. She stood, shoulders shaking, tears streaming and begging without actually holding her hands out. What is it about the pathetic-ness of a person that sometimes makes you hate them even more? Why is pity, sympathy and empathy replaced with a strange and unexpected response of repulsion, anger and agitation?
She used to be pristine. Smooth and shiny, Not a hair out of place, nor an unsightly sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times, she wore composure and dignity like a body contouring slip, custom made. Just for her.

Where did I go wrong? I put her in a box. I put her in a box and sent her on her way. No seat-belt, no cushioning or padding. No Styrofoam peanuts to protect her fragility. No sign that said: CAUTION: THIS SIDE UP. I sent her in the little dingy box with no armour and she shattered. 
She returned broken and glued together, roughly. She looked almost pristine. Not smooth, but shiny. All the different cracks, lines and paths that had drawn into her reflected off of her a thousand and one million lights. Each unimaginably brilliant. 
And so, I thought, she's returned broken. Broken, but healed. Broken, but better.
Hair out of place, her inner pain now reflected on the outside as the bruises, burns and cuts start to show as the sun sets and the brilliance of the lights dim. She is not wearing her composure or her dignity. She says she had misplaced it somewhere along her journey home. All she wears now are her bruises, burns and cuts. She complements it with pearly, saltine tears that can no longer stream straight down her broken face.  
And so she stands before me shattered. Begging for kindness. 
Only she has returned home where I too have shattered and feebly attempted to glue myself together. I reflect her as I always did. 
Pristine. Smooth. Shiny. Not a hair out of place. Nor a sore in sight. Glassy eyed at times. We wore composure and dignity like a body suit. Shattered. Broke. Shining. Bruised. Burnt. Cut. 
We no longer fit into each other like two puzzle pieces. Our jagged edges are a fracas; we disintegrate as we attempt to mash together into one. We crumble until we no longer recognize ourselves or each other. We are lost to each other and so, we are lost.

You are the soil.

You are the consequence/

Of a thousand broken before You/

Without You the crop that women grow would fail/

Without You the homes that women build would falter/

And yet men feel like they can spill all their toxic insides/

On Your surface, to saturate You without thinking that everything/

Everything whether it be Organic or Woman-built/

Would not even have a chance to exist without You/

Not even in the form of a mere flickering passing thought.

-For the women 

Tell me,

She says,

You’re a poet

But I am not sure

Words are a weaker medium

Than bodies

Or sounds

Or night

The way you recount

Your day to me

Slowly rebraiding my hair

Carefully rolling cigarettes

Or how whispers find

Their way into 

The inner chambers

What do I tell you jaan

I am learning about poems

From you and Neruda

And the protective eyes of waitresses

Yes, learning all over again

Love takes time

So I put in time

With these poems

And poems

And time

Are great dance partners