Abla's Eyes

My dad forwards some really nice material of generally islamic, political and cultural nature. This poem I quite liked and thought I'd share.


عيون عبلة

(1) كَفْكِف دموعَكَ وانسحِبْ يا عنترة
فعيونُ عبلةَ أصبحَتْ مُستعمَرَه
( 2 ) لا ترجُ بسمةَ ثغرِها يوماً، فقدْ
سقطَت من العِقدِ الثمينِ الجوهرة
( 3 ) قبِّلْ سيوفَ الغاصبينَ.. ليصفَحوا
واخفِضْ جَنَاحَ "الخِزْيِ".. وارجُ المعذرة
( 4 ) ولْتبتلع أبياتَ فخرِكَ صامتاً
فالشعرُ في عصرِ القنابلِ ثرثرة
( 5 ) والسيفُ في وجهِ البنادقِ عاجزٌ
فقدَ الهُويّةَ والقُوى والسيطرة
( 6 ) فاجمعْ مَفاخِرَكَ القديمةَ كلَّها
واجعلْ لها مِن قاعِ صدرِكَ مقبرة
( 7 ) وابعثْ لعبلةَ في العراقِ تأسُّفاً
وابعثْ لها في القدسِ قبلَ الغرغرة
( 8 ) اكتبْ لها ما
كنتَ تكتبُه لها
تحتَ الظلالِ، وفي الليالي المقمرة:
( 9 ) "يا دارَ عبلةَ" بالعراقِ "تكلّمي"
هل أصبحَتْ جنّاتُ بابلَ مقفرة؟!
( 10 ) هل نَهْرُ عبلةَ تُستباحُ مِياهُهُ
وكلابُ أمريكا تُدنِّس كوثرَه؟!
( 11 ) يا فارسَ البيداءِ.. صِرتَ فريسةً
عبداً ذليلاً أسوداً ما أحقرَه!!
( 12 ) متطرِّفاً.. متخلِّفاً.. ومخالِفاً
نَسَبوا لكَ الإرهابَ.. صِرتَ مُعسكَرَه
( 13 ) عَبْسٌ.. تخلّت عنكَ.. هذا دأبُهم
حُمُرٌ -لَعمرُكَ- كلُّها مستنفِرَه
( 14 ) في الجاهليةِ.. كنتَ وحدكَ قادراً
أن تهزِمَ الجيشَ العظيمَ وتأسِرَه
( 15 ) لن تستطيعَ الآنَ وحدكَ قهرَهُ
فالزحفُ موجٌ.. والقنابلُ ممطرة
( 16 ) وحصانُكَ العَرَبيُّ ضاعَ صهيلُهُ
بينَ الدويِّ.. وبينَ صرخةِ مُجبَرَه
( 17 ) "هلاّ سألتِ الخيلَ يا ابنةَ مالِكٍ"
كيفَ الصمودُ؟! وأينَ أينَ المقدرة؟!
( 18 ) هذا الحصانُ يرى المَدافعَ حولَهُ
متأهِّباتٍ.. والقذائفَ مُشهَرَه
( 19 ) "لو كانَ يدري ما المحاورةُ اشتكى"
ولَصاحَ في وجهِ القطيعِ وحذَّرَه
( 20 ) يا ويحَ عبسٍ.. أسلَمُوا أعداءَهم
مفتاحَ
خيمتِهم، ومَدُّوا القنطرة
( 21 ) فأتى العدوُّ مُسلَّحاً بشقاقِهم
ونفاقِهم، وأقام فيهم منبرَه
( 22 ) ذاقوا وَبَالَ ركوعِهم وخُنوعِهم
فالعيشُ مُرٌّ.. والهزائمُ مُنكَرَه
( 23 ) هذِي يدُ الأوطانِ تجزي أهلَها
مَن يقترفْ في حقّها شرّاً.. يَرَه
( 24 ) ضاعت عُبَيلةُ.. والنياقُ... ودارُها
لم يبقَ شيءٌ بَعدَها كي نخسرَه
( 25 ) فدَعوا ضميرَ العُربِ يرقد ساكناً
في قبرِهِ.. وادْعوا لهُ.. بالمغفرة
( 26 ) عَجَزَ الكلامُ عن الكلامِ.. وريشتي
لم تُبقِ دمعاً أو دماً في المحبرة
( 27 ) وعيونُ عبلةَ لا تزالُ دموعُها
تترقَّبُ الجِسْرَ البعيدَ.. لِتَعبُرَه


word

Ahmad matter

Ahmat Mattar is an amazing poet, and I'm proud to say he's iraqi as well. His poetry is political about both the arab street and the global status quo. If you can arabic, you're very lucky to read his poetry because it'll really make you think, otherwise, too bad, I've already butchered enough arab poems by translating them, never again.


!نعـم .. أنا إرهابي
الغربُ يبكي خيفـةً
إذا صَنعتُ لُعبـةً
.مِـن عُلبـةِ الثُقابِ
وَهْـوَ الّذي يصنـعُ لي
مِـن جَسَـدي مِشنَقَـةً
.حِبالُها أعصابـي
والغَـربُ يرتاعُ إذا
إذعتُ ، يومـاً ، أَنّـهُ
.مَـزّقَ لي جلبابـي
وهـوَ الّذي يهيبُ بي
أنْ أستَحي مِنْ أدبـي
وأنْ أُذيـعَ فرحـتي
..ومُنتهى إعجابـي
!إنْ مارسَ اغتصـابي
والغربُ يلتـاعُ إذا
عَبـدتُ ربّـاً واحِـداً
.في هـدأةِ المِحـرابِ
وَهْـوَ الذي يعجِـنُ لي
مِـنْ شَعَـراتِ ذيلِـهِ
ومِـنْ تُرابِ نَعلِـهِ
ألفـاً مِـنَ الأربابِ
ينصُبُهـمْ فـوقَ ذُرا
مَزابِـلِ الألقابِ
لِكي أكـونَ عَبـدَهُـمْ
وَكَـيْ أؤدّي عِنـدَهُـمْ
!شعائرَ الذُبابِ
وَهْـوَ .. وَهُـمْ
سيَضرِبونني إذا
.أعلنتُ عن إضـرابي
وإنْ ذَكَـرتُ عِنـدَهُـمْ
رائِحـةَ الأزهـارِ والأعشـابِ
سيصلبونني علـى
!لائحـةِ الإرهـابِ
**
رائعـةٌ كُلُّ فعـالِ الغربِ والأذنابِ
أمّـا أنا، فإنّني
مادامَ للحُريّـةِ انتسابي
فكُلُّ ما أفعَلُـهُ
!نـوعٌ مِـنَ الإرهـابِ
**
هُـمْ خَرّبـوا لي عالَمـي
فليحصـدوا ما زَرَعـوا
إنْ أثمَـرَتْ فـوقَ فَمـي
وفي كُريّـاتِ دمـي
عَـولَمـةُ الخَـرابِ
.هـا أنَـذا أقولُهـا
..أكتُبُهـا .. أرسُمُهـا
أَطبعُهـا على جبينِ الغـرْبِ
:بالقُبقـابِ
!نَعَـمْ .. أنا إرهابـي
زلزَلـةُ الأرضِ لهـا أسبابُها
!إنْ تُدرِكوهـا تُدرِكـوا أسبابي
لـنْ أحمِـلَ الأقـلامَ
!بلْ مخالِبـي
لَنْ أشحَـذَ الأفكـارَ
!بـلْ أنيابـي
وَلـنْ أعـودَ طيّباً
حـتّى أرى
شـريعـةَ الغابِ بِكُلِّ أهلِها
.عائـدةً للغابِ
**
.نَعَـمْ .. أنا إرهابـي
أنصَـحُ كُلّ مُخْبـرٍ
ينبـحُ، بعـدَ اليـومِ، في أعقابـي
أن يرتـدي دَبّـابـةً
لأنّني .. سـوفَ أدقُّ رأسَـهُ
!إنْ دَقَّ ، يومـاً، بابـي

Ahmad matter

Ahmat Mattar is an amazing poet, and I'm proud to say he's iraqi as well. His poetry is subtle and loud at the same time. mostly it's against the status quo of arab leadership now and 30 years ago, however this one is against the opression caused by the so called war on terror.

!نعـم .. أنا إرهابي
الغربُ يبكي خيفـةً
إذا صَنعتُ لُعبـةً
.مِـن عُلبـةِ الثُقابِ
وَهْـوَ الّذي يصنـعُ لي
مِـن جَسَـدي مِشنَقَـةً
.حِبالُها أعصابـي
والغَـربُ يرتاعُ إذا
إذعتُ ، يومـاً ، أَنّـهُ
.مَـزّقَ لي جلبابـي
وهـوَ الّذي يهيبُ بي
أنْ أستَحي مِنْ أدبـي
وأنْ أُذيـعَ فرحـتي
..ومُنتهى إعجابـي
!إنْ مارسَ اغتصـابي
والغربُ يلتـاعُ إذا
عَبـدتُ ربّـاً واحِـداً
.في هـدأةِ المِحـرابِ
وَهْـوَ الذي يعجِـنُ لي
مِـنْ شَعَـراتِ ذيلِـهِ
ومِـنْ تُرابِ نَعلِـهِ
ألفـاً مِـنَ الأربابِ
ينصُبُهـمْ فـوقَ ذُرا
مَزابِـلِ الألقابِ
لِكي أكـونَ عَبـدَهُـمْ
وَكَـيْ أؤدّي عِنـدَهُـمْ
!شعائرَ الذُبابِ
وَهْـوَ .. وَهُـمْ
سيَضرِبونني إذا
.أعلنتُ عن إضـرابي
وإنْ ذَكَـرتُ عِنـدَهُـمْ
رائِحـةَ الأزهـارِ والأعشـابِ
سيصلبونني علـى
!لائحـةِ الإرهـابِ
**
رائعـةٌ كُلُّ فعـالِ الغربِ والأذنابِ
أمّـا أنا، فإنّني
مادامَ للحُريّـةِ انتسابي
فكُلُّ ما أفعَلُـهُ
!نـوعٌ مِـنَ الإرهـابِ
**
هُـمْ خَرّبـوا لي عالَمـي
فليحصـدوا ما زَرَعـوا
إنْ أثمَـرَتْ فـوقَ فَمـي
وفي كُريّـاتِ دمـي
عَـولَمـةُ الخَـرابِ
.هـا أنَـذا أقولُهـا
..أكتُبُهـا .. أرسُمُهـا
أَطبعُهـا على جبينِ الغـرْبِ
:بالقُبقـابِ
!نَعَـمْ .. أنا إرهابـي
زلزَلـةُ الأرضِ لهـا أسبابُها
!إنْ تُدرِكوهـا تُدرِكـوا أسبابي
لـنْ أحمِـلَ الأقـلامَ
!بلْ مخالِبـي
لَنْ أشحَـذَ الأفكـارَ
!بـلْ أنيابـي
وَلـنْ أعـودَ طيّباً
حـتّى أرى
شـريعـةَ الغابِ بِكُلِّ أهلِها
.عائـدةً للغابِ
**
.نَعَـمْ .. أنا إرهابـي
أنصَـحُ كُلّ مُخْبـرٍ
ينبـحُ، بعـدَ اليـومِ، في أعقابـي
أن يرتـدي دَبّـابـةً
لأنّني .. سـوفَ أدقُّ رأسَـهُ
!إنْ دَقَّ ، يومـاً، بابـي

Here is the very rough translation (Note: Qubqab is an old style arabic shoe)
_______
Yes I am a terrorist,
The west screams in terror
if I made a toy
from a match box

Though he is the one who makes for me
From my body, a noose to hang me
Its ropes are my nerves

The west panics if
I, one day claimed
That he tore my clothes

He is the one that intimidates me into
Being shy of my morality
And to broadcast my happiness
And my utter awe
If he starts to rape me

The west panics if
I worshipped one god
In the serenity of my temple

He is the one who makes for me
From the hair on his tail
And from the dust of his shoes
Thousands of deities
To perch up on high
So that I may be THEIR slave
And so that I would carry out at their feet
the rituals of flies

And he, and tHEY
Would beat me if
I called a strike

And if I speak in their presence
Of the fragrances of the roses and the herbs
They will crucify me
On the stake of terrorism

All the deed of the west and their allies are achievements
Except for me, for if
As long as I belong to freedom
Then anything I do
Is counted as terrorism

They destroyed my world
So let them reap what they sowed
If over my mouth
And in my blood cells
The globalization of corruption came into fruition

Here I am, saying it
Writing it, drawing it
Imprinting it on the west’s forhead
With the Qubqab

YES I am a terrorist
The earth has its reasons for quaking
If you understand that, you’ll understand my reasons

I will not carry my pens
But my claws
I will not sharpen my thoughts
But my fangs

And I will not be happy
Until I see
The law of the jungle with all its decrees
Return to the jungle

Yes, I am a terrorist
I advice every investigator
Barking –after today- after me
To dress in a tank
Because I will knock him downIf he came one day knocking at my door

The subjectivity of art.

So I was talking to Tarek (aka The Gist) about movies and life, and he mentioned a movie he was planning to watch called Peppermint Candy, "Appearantly it's good, it's like the movie momento, it tells the story backwards". I looked it up on imdb and the feedback was good, so I aquired it to gain some cultural depth etc...

Well I'm watching it now, and maybe my cultural depth meter is broken, maybe I just don't see things like other people do, but I don't like this movie.
I can't judge it fully though since I'm only 40 minutes into this 2 hour movie, and it does give me a glimpse into korean society so that's cool.

Otherwise it's a depressing slow movie, there is no soundtrack, there is a depressed as guy who dances randomly, cried randomy. Also I've observed the most facinating way to deal with a man who sleeps with your wife, korean style. . .

People say art is subjective, I don't want to sound like a knowitall, however I can since I'm not a world class blogger, I can afford to say anything I want on my blog.

I think art is not as subjective as people hype it out to be, and this movie is a perfect example, it might be interesting, but it's not really that good that I have to sit through 2 hours of it.

The other day I went to a photographic exhibition for a bunch of professional photographers, I looked around and I have to say some shots were quite nice, and some were even jaw dropping. But some shots were so ordinary that I'm left wondering, why the frick is that guy exhibiting his work ? he should be knee deep in workshops etc... trying to fix his crappy photography !

A lot of mass consumption art 'concepts' are attractive for one reason only, not because they're especially good in any way, but because they're hyped in a way so that any person who isn't in that concept would feel shallow and redneck-esque (I just made up a term). Or at least that's my opinion.

Anyways, back to watching this crappy movie.

Jesus is Shi3a

'Islamic Jesus' hits movie screens
Tuesday Jan 15 15:31 AEDT

The thing about most art is that it almost always has an agenda behind it.

"A director who shares the ideas of Iran's hardline president has produced what he says is the first film giving an Islamic view of Jesus Christ, in a bid to show "common ground" between Muslims and Christians.

Nader Talebzadeh sees his movie, Jesus, the Spirit of God, as an Islamic answer to Western productions like Mel Gibson's 2004 blockbuster The Passion of the Christ, which he praised as admirable but quite simply "wrong"."

"Talebzadeh insists it aims to bridge differences between Christianity and Islam, despite the stark divergence from Christian doctrine about Christ's final hours on earth.

'It is fascinating for Christians to know that Islam gives such devotion to and has so much knowledge about Jesus," Talebzadeh said.' "


This is interesting however.


"The director is also keen to emphasise the links between Jesus and one of the most important figures in Shiite Islam, the Imam Mahdi, said to have disappeared 12 centuries ago but whose "return" to earth has been a key tenet of the Ahmadinejad presidency."

"Shiite Muslims, the majority in Iran, believe Jesus will accompany the Imam Mahdi when he reappears in a future apocalypse to save the world.

And Talebzadeh said the TV version of his film will further explore the links between Jesus and the Mahdi whose return Ahmadinejad has said his government, which came to power in 2005, is working to hasten."

I'd love any shia's reading this to tell me the difference between the shia mahdi and the sunni mahdi (I know this is not a PC to say it, but... whatever).

Original link here http://news.ninemsn.com.au/article.aspx?id=350858

The emirates is sinking.

What happens when a desert city with no preparation for heavy rains, gets heavy rains ?

it sinks, like a USS liberty, like a mafia boss gone snitch, like what would happen if the polar ice caps melted.


These are the streets 2 days ago

Always building by *iraqiguy on deviantART

These are the streets today, after 48 hours of rain.

Ajman winter by *iraqiguy on deviantART

nice, huh ? a half hour trip takes about 2 hours. So to drop someone off and then pick them up again, can you do the math ?

yes, 8 hours of driving today.

In the words of Borat, "NICE!"

And now for some poetry

Abbas Chechan is a famous iraqi poet, since I know f%#k all about iraqi poetry, that's all I can tell you about him, plus the fact that his poems (told in coloquial iraqi) are amazing, insightfull, funny, sad, and just a pleasure to listen to.

So, here is a translation for one of his poems.

I am Iraqi, from Amsterdam, I lived there for years and became dutch
I love people, all people, be they white, black, or indian

If I'm hungry or full, I'm the same way, calm and unmoved
I've tried to be good my whole life, and I've never had hate for people

I've a problem that though that touches my inner being, which never leaves my eyes dry
When I head the children of iraq are starving, I melt and my heart breaks

And when I hear a wounded man in iraq is lacking medicine, yelling out to "help me"
My distress my body shuts down from head to toe

oh my opresses people, do not blame me
For a body dead as mine is, can not help you or itself
_____________

This is an extremely rough translations, and unfortunately some part of the meaning of the poem is lost in 1- translations 2- Some old words I don't know, hopefull nawar will check out my blog and tell me if I've made any mistakes.






I'm still new to embedding youtube videos here, so if you can't see anything, go here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1Jpv1PYcRs&feature=related

Bushism

A forward text message that's currently making the rounds in the UAE.

"Happy Bush day to you and your family
May Allah bring Bush to us every week
Long live Bush"

I guess people here aren't all that sad about a day off every once in a while.

I googled my name today

Man, I'm blown away by the websites and publications in which I found my name. Some were stupid sites like bebo and freindster etc... but one mad find was my name, info about me, and MY WORK in a british islamic photography magazine. I tell you, reading about myself in the third person was crazy, my voice became very hight pitched and my corneas widended just a little bit.

Other stuff was just my "media presence" as -ex- media liaizon for FAMSY (www.famsy.com) which is cool too I guess.

This is funny in a way, I don't know why I haven't googled myself untill today, or maybe I did and this stuff hadn't surfaced yet. but now people can research me and I'd be like, this guy you can google and find stuff about. NICE (in a borat voice)

I think I'm updating this blog too often.

Dubai's closed down for the day

It feels like Bush is following me where ever I go.

I came to Sydney from Melbourne, and he comes down to Sydney for the APEC forum, closing down THE WHOLE CITY, these were interesting times, 400 uni and high school students rallying against Bush are surrounded by some 500 police in full riot gear. Fun times, fun times...

Now I'm in the UAE, Bush comes again to tell the arabs what's good for'em. Closing down Dubai for the day as well, causing great inconvenience to people who work and have shit to do in the city, including me. So where does that leave me ? in bed updating my blog. Watching the movie "days of glory" which by the way is an amazing movie.

The difference between the effects of the visit on Sydney and Dubai is quite clear and unfortunate.

In Sydney, there was inevatibly going to be alot of security procedures to protect the most hated man on the planet (Bush), but the government actually made sure that closing down the city and spending $250Million on security had a minimum on the populace. They declared a public holiday a week in advanced and apologised and got a bloody battering by the media.

In Dubai. The roads were closed. a day before Bush's visit, it was declared in a round about way that the next day that main streets in the CBD would be closed off and that goverment offices were closed. this two day confusion caused hours more wasted time in bumper to bumper traffic throughout the day. which could have been avoided had city commuters known about the road closures and security procedures before hand.

They're still learning though, still getting used to the ropes. so I'm not so critical.

Next year I wanna visit my famiy in Sydney again, I hope I won't find myself sitting next to Bush in the plane, he seems to have it for me. (haha ! joke!)

Thinking outside the box

Recently I recieved an email from a dear friend in Melbourne, I know this guy from uni, he's top notch. I like him because he doesn't twist and turn and play mind games etc... if he thinks something, he says it, if he doesn't like something about me, he tells me straight away. Not in a mean way mind you, but in a brotherly way. (you don't know my brother).

Anyways, so in his email he was asking me about the upcoming famsy camp (http://www.famsy.com/famsy/modules/news/article.php?storyid=131) coming up end of January. He was discussing with his friends about whether to go or not, and for some reason they were convinced, and they had him convinced that I was either a- Salafi, or b- modern salafi and that this camp will ... I don't know what they're expect from a supposed modern salafi camp.

I will take a minute here to assert that I am not salafi, OR modern salafi, I guess if I was gonna put my ass in a box, I would call myself a hanafi coz I was born one.
Also, FAMSY is not a salafi organisation, it's a student organisation that aligns itself to no theology other than following the Quran and the sunnah. We work and accept all organisations and schools of thought within the sunni muslim community in Australia and overseas, and we have done so in all our activities.

What saddens me, what pisses me off, what Diarrhea's me, is that many muslims in melbourne (I say Melbourne because I felt it alot in Melbourne) feel they have to put people in a box, they are either salafi, tablighi, sufi, or neo this, or pseudo that. it kills me.

I've always tried to define myself as being Muslim only because there already so many divisions in the Muslim community, I didn't want to contribute to it. so I had friends and connections with all groups and leaders and shaikhs, and I honestly always tried to respect them all, and I thought it worked, but ofcourse I've also always tried not to align myself to one group specifically. That's why I loved FAMSY because thier powerbase is not a school of thought or a ethnicity, but students and youth.

so yes, if you think I'm salafi, I'm not, and i'm not dissing the salaf, they're a wonderful crowd. One of the most beautifull and beloved brothers to me -Eisa- is from iisca and we get along pretty well... which reminds me I have to note him a salams on facebook.

The return of Rima

Ther is an old iraqi proverb that goes, رجعت ريمة الى عادتها القديملة, which means, Rima is back to her old tricks. its uses are obvious, though I'm unclear of the origin of this proverb.

Anyways, my old habit is late sleep and late wake up times. Something I've always had and I've always hated. Right now it's 11:20pm. I'm listening to stearing ABC newsradio, I love those guys, and the Australian accent is soothing to my ear. It rained today in the early morning and just a few minutes ago. This is worth mention because Ajman and the general emirates weather is desert weather, rain occurs 4 or 5 times a year, and when it happens, it's barakah. or blessing.

I've not been updating my blog, too many things were happening and I needed to have a roughly clear mind for writing. At somepoint though I decided I can't wait for that for ever, so I'm writing again. You never know, I may be be able to continue my short story filim.

running my mind off

I was listening to the Quran the other day and it made me think, I tune out usually when I listen to the Quran on mp3, so usually I remember the tone and pick up a few key words, but generally the message is lost on me, it's alot more effective when I read the Quran or when I listen to the slower recitations. I and just realised why, which is to say I've got theory about why I can't take it Quran at normal listening speed.

It's because I can't REALLY listen to the Quran when it's being recited by the speed of say, Afasy, because for us arab speakers, the quran, with its divinity and purpose and non existant expiry date, is very complex, so complex infact that it's not like a normal book or an interview with someone famous, it's the book of life, written by Allah swt so beautifully for us to ponder.

If you've tuned out like I do sometimes, you need only to remember the word ponder. I listen to Surat Yousef on an mp3 and it lasts what, 20 minutes ? but how long would it take to study the tafseer of surat yousef ? the begining Alef Laam Meem can take a while to read and understand.

So when I'm listening to is, one ayah takes my mind away, I think about it, I try to make i3rab to it, I think about the words and thier meanings and the purpose of using them here and not other words, about the muslims when they first heard it etc... by the time I'm back to listening, the reciter is 5 to 15 ayahs away. and that's when I'm actually listening to the recitation.

I'm not making a fat man here (I mean fatwa), but I really think that you cannot really listen to an mp3 quran unless it was slowely recited. Or if you've already memorized and studied that surah or ayah.



peace

Stories from my grand dad 3

In the iran war, my relationship was with the ministry of defense, because the dams were strategicly important, if an Iranian fighter jet shoots the dam, the whole town would go under water,.

I went to Mosul, we had two damns, one in the north of mosul, and one in suliemania, these didn't have enough military defense, so I went to kirkuk to the staff general Marshal to tell him about the lack of defense.

When I arrived they were having lunch, a whole heap of about 30 generals sitting at a huge table. The general marshal sitting at the head of the table. A muslawi.

I saluted, he called for me, ifathaal hooni (in maslawi dialect "have a seat"), I said I'm not military sir, he said you're better than military, come sit next to me,

I shook his hand, May Allah help you and bless you,

I told him the story. He told His assistant general to meet with him after lunch for amore official meeting because this was important.

Later on because I was speaking maslawi, he asked me where are you from ? I said I'm originally from Baghdad city, but Ive lived in mosul for 12 years and I'm taba3ia mosul.

He stood up and yelled "ishnoo ishqilit ? taba3yia irania ?" (what did you say ? you're iranian by ethnicity?) I said "Ya saidi I said taba3ia mosul, like you !" He sat down and was laughing. I didn't understand.

The other generals were asking me, what did you tell him ? I said taba3ia mosul, they said that;s what we heard.

I told him the whole story of my taba3ia again.

Who did you marry in Mosul ? He said who did you marry in Mosul maybe I know the family.

I told him "abdulhakeem amin" He was like "oh that guy was my commander when I was lieutenant.

the funny bit here is that this leutenant thought my grand dad was taba3ia iran, which would have been dangerous since the war at the time was with iran.

Stories from my grand dad 2

I had a government vehicle, if the kurds at the time see a government vehicle they tend to steal it, So I used to muddy the liscnece plates of the car and used to wear a kurdish turban to look Kurdish, I also speak Kurdish coz I stayed there for along time for the dam building .

One time I was returning from suliemania to kirkuk to go back to Baghdad. Usually in the head of the city there would be a police station to monitor the entry and exit in and out of the city.

That day is was raining heavily, when I reached the police station, I tooted my car, no body answered, I dind't want to go out in the rain, so I drove on.

10 minutes later, a police car came chasing me, the guy in the car was yelling "RAUSTA RAUSTA" stop in Kurdish.

He asked why didn't you stop ? no one was there ! no you have to go back

So I went back, a seargant came out, took me inside, I gave him my Identification, he took it and put it away, SIT DOWN ! you're arrested.

I said thank you for arresting, but I need the phone, because I'll be late to an appointment with the general commander of the military. Can I call ?

Ok sure

So I called , the assistant of the commander answered, "come in where are you ? we're waiting for you " I said I wasn't close yet, because the searagnt took my identification and arrested me

He said "YAAKUL KHARA" give him the phone. (means HE CAN EAT SHIT!)

The seargant took the phone, suddenly he stood up to attention to the phone "YES SIR, OK SIR, YES SIR"

The assistant spoke to me again, come down now, bring the seargant with you.

The sargant gave me the card, and was so scared now he waslike a mouse, there were soldiers in the entrance of kirkuk barracks, they stopped us and cuffed the seargant and took him inside, by that time he was almost ready to pee his pants.

I came inside I saw the commander, "who is this idiot who did this to you?"

I said "Sir I beg of you, I don’t' want this guy to die from a heart attack, let him off"

So he called up his people "feed him and let him go"

The seargant got the fright of his life just now, so from then on he never got in my way again, other times I'd come down to them I'd give them the card, they'd so get outta here we know who you are, what would you like ? tea ? lunch ?

This happened to me a lot, but I never worried about it because I had in my pocket a letter from the minister of defense, and I wasn't doin anything wrong.

Stories from my grand dad

My grandfather is 80something years old now, and he's got all these old stories from when he was a dam engineer back in Iraq, they're very entertaining to listen to him say it, but also they're history, so at some point I started documenting them when he told them (he's got like a hundred stories he recycles). This is one those stories.

I hope you can understand it, I basically wrote down exactly what he said (with instant translation)

____________________
The mosul damn, I was the manager for the project. Usually large projects like this need a base marble on which is written the name of the project and the date . the price we got for the stone was 120 dinar. For one stone !

We went to the guy who sold us the stone,
salams, did you quote us the price ?
Yep

120 dinar is a lot, why so much ? ok let's count

Hillania (I don't know what this means)

It worked out to be 35 dinar, + 25 dinar profits, why 120 ? (this story is from the 1970s, when the iraqi dinar was equal to 3 US dollars)

He turned to the purchasing committee who had come with me, asking "why did you bring this guy with you ? I was hoping the guy from Baghdad would come down so I can charge him lots!" The purchasing committee went nuts and trying to shut this guy up "This IS the Baghdad guy !"

He; like "No, this guy speaks likes us !"

So I said "I' came from Baghdad but I'm taba3ia mosul" (taba3ia means have origins from that place or ethnicity)

He said what ?

I said "I came to mosul when I was 6, all my education was in mosul, my university was a mosul scholarship. I married from mosul"

He said "Well then you're one of us !"

So I said "Ok then give it to me for 40 dinar, you have a 20 dinar profit"

He's like , ok 50 dinar, fine.

They had sent the director of purchasing and administration to suprvise me, from the baath party official. He asked me what I'd done.

So I called up one of the purchasing committee members, his name was francis, I asked him "what do you think should I tell him the price or give him the whole story ? Francis said, tell him the whole story it was a good thingh you did.

When I returned to Baghdad, the official dude told the minitester, the minister was my friend, I knew him from before. He sent for me.,

At his office, he took me to the board meeting room, I told him the whole story and he was laughing , He then sent me a letter of thanking and appreciation, with a 100 dinar bestowment.

Filim: part three

I woke up feeling the car coming to a stop; I lift my head from the makeshift front seat bed. After 12 hours of driving, my body had gotten used to the bumps and shakes accompanied with driving on the Iraqi interstate freeway, or whatever they call it down here.
"Where are we?", Jabbar, my driver, doesn't seem the least bit perturbed, he did however look a bit nervous from the way his eyes kept darting around, he pointed "That way is Falluja, you go I cannot take you further"
Squinting my eyes I could see a city about half an hour's walk. Although the term city could hardly be used for these rows of mud brick houses and scores of minarets standing tall amongst the ruined city, it looked like a medieval township. "Jabs mate, you've come this is far! Can't you take me closer?"
"No Sam this very dangerous for me, these Dlaimia will kill me" Apparently those 'Dlaimia' didn't like my driver so much" It'll be fine bro just take me a bit closer!" My driver looks at me with unease "Sam my friend, Iraq is a big country with a lot of beoble" "a lot of beoble fighting all the time all the beoble" Wow. I was surprised things here were so bad this guy couldn't come within half an hour of cities. I'm so glad I didn't bring any large suitcases outside the car I hugged Jabbar and thanked him, I handed him the money but he didn't accept it. "Sam ya akhi, you will need this money more than me" He looked at me in sadness, "Sam you are a good boy, be careful there a lot of bad beoble here, do not die", and with that, he drove away. The half hour walk to Falluja was exactly as disgusting as I thought it would be, the ankle deep mud tried its hardest to halt my march on the city. The sun was giving me all it had-even thought it was almost 4pm; I was glad then for the heat wave Melbourne was experiencing before I left, otherwise I would not have been standing now, battling this lake of mud.
Finally I made it to some houses, all laid out in neat rows which had now deviated and went every which way. I could make out people now, five little kids running around what looked to be a soccer ball but was not, screaming their lungs out at each other and the ball. They were all wearing the same long dusty outfits, it was very impressive how they could maneuver a ball or even run with a dress that reaches to their feet, but there they were doing it! Women dressed in large shawls covering their hair, almost hovering it seems because their clothes covered their feet. There was an old man walking very slowly with an ancient stick, had he been in Australia I would have thought he was taking a nice stroll down his street, it was a very quiet moment then and I was about to take out my camera and filming but thought the better of it. Just then, a loud voice sounded in the horizon, first it was that single strong crisp voice that called and stretched for a long while before a symphony of voices all alone but together non the less joined in this call, these calls, strong yet calming, powerful and beautiful, with their long melodic tones and sad rhythms, overwhelmed me again and again, washing over me like deliciously hot water in winter time, and I remained in place determined to feel every decibel of sound, the hair on my body stood in anticipation and relish for this sound, for that minute I wanted nothing more than to be in that place, at that time, and listening to that call.
Thus, it came to and ends, and opening my eyes after what felt like the best shiatsu massage ever, before me was a city transformed. The kids playing soccer had tripled to about 12 and were all leaving the dirt square soccer field, I could easily make out dozens of people all leaving their homes, all walking in the same general direction.
So I started walking along, initially nobody noticed me, but an aussie with a Stussy backpack and ozi rags can only blend in for so long in a city like Falluja, the little kids were pointing at me, the women eyed me from the corner of their eyes and spoke feverently to each other, some men were looking directly at me with a mixture of surprise and amusement.
We finally reached our destination, a tall minaret with an impressively built mud brick mosque, it had the same color tone as the houses and other buildings here but it was a lot higher which made it stand out.
I walked in, half way through the flood of shoes on the floor I realized that I should probably take off my shoes as well, I stood there for a second admiring my white adidas shoes amongst the sandals and slippers, praying no one steals them I walked in, the mosque inside was a lot cleaner than I gave it credit for, the carpets were bright red, the walls were a subtle white creamy color, everyone in the mosque was dressed in white or gray. I sat in the back and waited to see what would happen. People were walking in and making what seemed to be random prayers, one of the men noticed me sitting and walked over to me "Alsalamu alaikum"
"Hi" I answered, feeling sheepish; I'm supposed to say something else
"You are Amereekany?"
"No, I'm Australian, I'm here to make a documentary" then remembering the right term "Making a film about Falluja"
"Filim?" He looks at me for a second "where you are living?"
Realizing that I had nowhere to stay "Nowhere for now, are there hotels around here?"
"This is Falluja, not Seedny, but I will find you a blasé" I watched him walking over to the front side of the mosque and started speaking to a man also dressed in a long dark grey dress, but who also sported a beard and a funky red top. They looked at me and spoke some more.
The man came back to me and offered me a smile and his hand "My name is Abu Ali, you will stay with me"
I shook his hand and took his smile "Pleased to meet you Abu Ali, my name is Sami"

Filim: part two

I got off the airplane and ran to the closest toilet, which I progressed to furnish with my breakfast from this morning. This was probably the most turbuent flight I've ever been on, and it wasn't bad weather either.


Walking out of the toilet I still felt shaky and sick, which was obvious because I could hear the chuckles of the other passengers around me in this broken down building I could only guess is the airport lounge. The green (maybe 20 years ago they were green)plastic seats were moldy and broken, the walls were splattered with bulet holes and oddly enough what looked like coffee stains.

"the pilot flies like this to avoid the rebel zones". I turn around following the deep cracked accented voice, an over tanned middle-aged over-weight man sits with hands clasped behind his head. 
His classic monsterous mustache tells me he's a local, his taxi driver clothes eminate stench and dust, probably from hours of driving back and fro to the airport.

"Well why doesn't he fly high ?"

"The Americans will think he's flying a syrian plane and shoot him down". I have to get used to this accent if I'm going to stay in Iraq for the next few months, So they pronouce it Amreecan, Soorian etc... well at least i can make out the words.

"They don't use radio ?"
"The Amreecans are too excited shooters, they don't use radio alot", he probably meant trigger happy, so I'll have to stick with the western clothing to stay safe.

"I'm trying to go to baghdad, will you take me ?" He looks me up and down for maybe the forth time, "baghdad is far away, it will cost you hundred amreecan doollars", Whoa ! that's expensive, I try to keep a straight face while counting my money in my head, I thought it was gonna be cheap living here, I spent half the money on the trip down here and the camera.

Mr Taxi driver laughs and calls me over "I'm joaking ya silly english, 20 amreecan dollars is enough", he laughs more when he sees the look of relief on my face. He holds his hands out to me "My name is AbdulGabbar"

I shake his dry sandpapered hand "My name is Sam, I'm Australian, I'm making a film here"

" A filim ? You will find lots of action here ya Sam, Welcome to Iraq"

To be continued

RE: The gift

I hope you're not expecting a fully insightful look into this story, remember that I'm just starting and testing out different things, some things may just be there for no good reason, things like the ending or the underlying message might not be very developed, but hey, it's free fiction. stop complainig.

Here are the names of the differnet gangsters and what they mean.

Our hero, or anti hero: Ammo Sami, or Abu Sami. translated to english it's "uncle sam", and we all know who that is.

Abu Hizb "the oldest most respected gangster in Baghdad": Hizb means party (political), this dude represented the old regime, the Baath Socialist Party, basically Saddam Hussien

Abu Naji Is the odl british colonial, Abu Naji is what the iraqis used to call the British representative, because his son was caled Nigel, arabised into Naji, so he's Abu Naji, or Nigel's Dad.

"Ibn Abeeh" literally means 'son of his father' denoting his lineage- he's a bastard half bred criminal, this guy represents all the seedy elements in iraq that have begun operating in the city after the fall of the old regime and the installation of the new bullshit regime.

Finally, the dreamers, are ofcourse the muslims, I called them that so the reader wouldn't know who I was talking about, and also to explain everyone's opinion of the muslim, as having a romantic notion that God is on his side, while taking all the insults and baring it.

The name Tahir means purity or cleanliness, my sister helped me to choose it coz I didn't know what name would best fit the character.

Other than that meaning it has no other cultural or historical connotations.

I dont' know what else to explain. I hope the meanings of the names make it easier to understand, any questions ?

The gift VI (Final)

The hot sun burns everything in its path, asphalt melts, mothers call their children inside, fans and air conditioners blare along the houses, I drive my car at top speed across the city.

And the dreamers walk to their mosques. The only thing moving was those fools in their white robes in silence, oblivious to the hot sun, moving like a flight of doves, or hawks. . .

As I drive past them I floor the accelerator, willing the car to move faster away from them, my hands strain against the sweaty grip of the steering wheel, I eye them in the mirror wearily. Yesterday I could have laughed if someone told me these were to be my executioners, today ? I don't know what to think today. I drive on.

I reach the mosque of Um Altubool, The preacher is half way through his sermon of the original sin and how we should never be arrogant. I park my car in the shade and wait , it's too hot to walk out, and I can never see myself actually going in, religion wasn't made for the likes of me, I am my own god.

I tried to remember the man who appeared to me out of nowhere 24 hours ago, his face, I couldn't remember his face, except for the feeling it gave me, that of helplessness. Not out of fear, for his face was not aggressive, nor was it passive however. it was the look of a man that scared you because he didn't fear anything, a man taken with zeal.
How could I see it was a dreamer ? the thawb, the looks, the wording he used, to meet my master ?
I strained to remember a time when these people were violent, or had structure, or did anything other than pray and be thankful for the hell they live everyday.

Alsalamu alaikum

I must have slept or I wouldn't have overlooked him standing so close to me, kneeling so as to be on the same level as me and speaking to me through the car window. I jumped back and reached for my gun, I couldn't find it and panicked – he might have taken it while I slept ? frantically my hands jerked around the seat and finally found the calming heavy grip of the gun which I pointed directly at him.

He just stood there, smiling, unwavering. for now I had the gun and could shoot this would be assassin, but we both knew it was stalemate.

"You don't need that, I came to speak to you, brother to brother"

This was my chance to look at him more closely, same white thawb, how did he managed to approach me so quietly like this ? everything about him implied serenity, then what is it that's putting me on edge ? why is this man alarming me so much ?

"Don't call me that" I spat menacingly, I got out of the car, my gun still drawn but not pointed, I was taller and a good deal heavier than him. I still stayed clear of his aura.

"Come, let's walk while we speak", he turned around and walked away slowly. I wasn't used to being told what to do, but at that point I was so much in shock, I just followed.

I walked alongside him "Who are you?"

"My name is Tahir, I'm an engineering student at the university of Baghdad, I.." interrupting I said "I mean why are you after me ? who sent you?"

he laughed "I'm not part of any gang, I'm a Muslim son of Baghdad, there are many like me all over the city, we all saw the corruption and the crime, we all grew up in this city, we've seen what a utopia it can be, the people here are good and honorable, there is much culture and beauty here only if we can bring it back. The people and the earth are ripe for goodness- if only they can swim out of the sea of blood and grime they're sunk in."

His voice quivered with every thought he spoke "This is the city of peace, the gift of God, on its knees waiting for the right person to pull it up to its past glory, it calls for us, every explosion, every death, every bullet, every injustice calls for us to help, to take this dear city by the arm and pull it back up, with the help of Allah, we think it's possible"

He stopped and turned to me, the mosque car park now empty except for us, the mosque itself looms over me, a serious look replaces Tahir's smile "We are approaching all the sons of Baghdad to help us"
He's looking at me "Will you help us? "

I stare at him with surprise "YOU want ME to help you clean up Baghdad?" he nods and keeps his eyes towards mine, waiting for my answer.

I laugh, loud and hard, I laugh at the naivety of these dreamers with their hopes and their dreams, I laugh at their blindness, asking me, the thug of Baghdad, and master of Baghdad, to clean up my city of Baghdad ? I laugh at myself for having feared such a flock of sheep when this sea of blood and death IS my utopia. I laugh until my sides hurt and my eyes water.

Tahir stands still. his face unchanged, waiting for my answer.

"let me tell you something Mr. dreamer" I compose myself and look him dead in the eye "if you think your Baghdad needs to be cleaned up, then you don't understand Baghdad"

He questions with his eyes.

"Understand this, THIS is Baghdad as it is, any cleanliness is a facade, any honor is a joke played amongst the likes of me, for every bullet and death and rape, Baghdad cries for more"

While I talk and yell I feel him hurting like my words are bullets, I see disappointment in his face.

"This is the real Baghdad, this the Baghdad I know" I step up to him, my face few inches from his "I AM Baghdad"

He turns his face, and although this should have satisfied me, it doesn't, because he turns away out disinterest rather than fear. "It's unfortunate that you think this way"

He turns around again "You realize this means we shall have to clean you out too"

My heart turns cold, those words pierce my heart like a bold of lightening, I remember my gun in my hand still, I pick up the dead metal weight and aim it close to him face, though I don't dare touch him with it.

"You ? kill me ? Don't make me laugh !" though I wasn't in a laughing mood. All I wanted to do with pull the trigger and end this travesty.

Tahir smiles, a sweet surrendering smile. "Not me"

"The sniper"

In an instant I understand, insight so clear is shocks my whole system,

Meeting at the mosque area, HIS area !

"let's walk" he's said, and I followed

Into a clear space that's an empty car park !

Deep down I hated myself for being led so neatly to a trap, like a lamb.

A moment for insight, no time to prepare for the loud CRACK in the air, as suddenly my gun was no longer in my hand, and instead is a explosion of blood where my fingers used to be.
I grab my wrist and scream so loud that I choke.
On my own vomit, my eyes are watering, I'm on my knees, I look up at Tahir. his face sad and serious, He looks at me, but through me, and says "I stretched out my hand to my brother and spoke of peace, and my brother spat hate at my face and stretched his hand to me to slay me, and my brother was not my brother"

My tears were of pain and fear. "but my enemy"


these were the last seconds of my life. I am the lamb sacrificed for the feast of the new Baghdad.

the second bullet dives into my neck, I am thrown by the force of the impact, but die before I reach the ground.


The End