The Happiness of Ibrahim Adhan

The door to the place 

Flew open with  a gentle touch

And yet this touch carries the force of certainty.

You will find the elongated arm 

Steadily protruding out of the door.

Then,

The first step,

The second step,

And you will be assured that these will be the steps of a man

Certain with purpose.

You will also recognize that this man 

Is patiently resigned 

In his skin where he resides.

There he is calmly walking 

To the goal of his destination.

And this destination was appointed to him

In the vision he had had of the prophet (pbuh)

Two hours before this approach.

 

In the dream, 

The Holy Prophet appeared to him with the key

And without even realizing he was reaching for the key

His hand hadfor lack any better terms

His hands reached out and his fingers attached themselves to the keys.

Which the Holy Prophet has just delivered unto him

With the instructions,

 

Go

And open the doors 

Of the mosque

And let the people in.

And when you’re done,

Hand them over the keys.

 

From this,

The firmly approaching steps that belong to a shortly contended body

Is the man who was once the Sultan of the Balkans

And is now the Sultan of Nothing.

 

Ibrahim Adhan

Is happy

In purpose grin

Feeling the warm, early approach of the sun

For, yes,

Ibrahim Adhan 

Can distinguish between a black thread and a white thread.

 

So it is time for morning prayer.

 

Ibrahim Adhan 

Is heading towards the mosque

To do as he has been instructed

But was it a dream?

And is it real?

 

It matters none the less to Ibrahim Adhan

Because to him,

There is no separation between dream and waking

Because Ibrahim Adhan knows that it is all a dream

And that within the dream there is nothing that is real but the real

And from the real the prophet has come to give him a command

And in the real he will fulfill such command.  

 

So there he arrived at the mosque

Early,

Before anyone got there

He walked through the door,

Turned around

And came back out with a grin on his face

And stood right outside the door of the mosque,

Extended his hand to give the key to the people

 

But,

Where is the key?

And what is the key?

 

For Ibrahim Adhan,

The key is right there in the palm of his hand

And whoever can see it 

May take it.

 

So as he stood there,

The first worshipper came by 

And looked strangely at him

And walked by him

Looked back at him

And then entered into the mosque.

 

Immediately following him,

Two groups of five walked by.

The two did not look.

The three of the five

Turned to look in various degrees of perception.

Through their commotional dance

You can hear laughter

Coursing its way 

Through their dispositions

As seemingly passing on laughter between themselves as a relay

As if to drop the laughter

That would cause them their daily bread.

 

And with this disposition, 

They walk into the mosque to pray

 

Following them in pairs

All heading towards a destination that is the mosque

In various degrees again

The symphony of mockery and laughter

And disbelief

And frankly,

Some astonishments

Made their presence welcome,

 

In this agitated approach 

That calls themselves, the worshipper of their lord,

As they enter the mosque

To deliver to that lord

Its prescription for their keeping

And yet as they enter

You could read in this cacophony of display

Their disdain and hatred 

For the man who stands at the door of the mosque

With his hand perfectly extended 

Halfway between a person 

Standing in a casual reach

Would extend out to meet his shoulder

So that when theres a measure

It will be as if his hand is the middle

Of two beings staring at each other

Situated in alignment with the position of its heart.

 

Ibrahim Adhan 

Stood there

With a grin on his face

 

For the happiness of this day

Will be a memorial for the angels

To recite in a catechism of praise

To the glory.

 

so Ibrahim Adhan is in service

And at service.

 

The passersby,

The worshippers of their lord

Have now grown to be a conversational stream has grown

Into the mosque

And from this stream 

The amalgamation of those streams,

That hatred aspire to flower

Became the recognizable garden of this stream

And from there,

Someone who’s hatred has become uncontrollable

Displayed their intent

By spitting from the throng

And the spit landing on Ibrahim Adhans’ forehead

Sitting there for a moment 

As if going in the allowance for recognition

And then slowly sliding down the column of its nose

And prayerfully collecting itself at the tip of that same nose

And then as the duty of itself 

Reached its critical culmination of its stature

Dripped down to the floor

In globs of baptism

As if they are bells 

Announcing the approach of a happening.

 

Before the announcement was made, 

Some from this stream of the throng

Have become imitators of the original thrower 

And have followed his example 

But spits coming from every possible direction

So that the face of Ibrahim Adhan is covered

With multi-colored salivas

Directed at him by those whose intentions are the mirror reflective oppositions of his grin

Those beings who are on their way to their worshipper

But displaying their true nature

In contemptible stride,

They offered the necessary medium

For Ibrahim Adhan’s baptism.

And this baptism is this grin,

 This grin which is an affront to them

So that instead of celebrating in this blissful appearance 

They retaliated with the best weapon they had available

And with spit in myriad meteoric interference 

Of an impossible rapacity in different speeds

So that when seen from the side 

You might think that you are watching the rotation of a smooth playing gramaphone

Churning out the song of love 

For the one who stood there offering the key to the mosque

Defying the expression of conventional overtures.  

But the true inner quality that expresses its nature in Ibrahim Adhan 

Is the created pattern of the congregation

In many sets of divisions 

Forming different patterns that in their nature 

Give different flavors and tastes and visions 

And color

And attitude

And all kinds of myriads of things that make up a paradisal feasting.

 

Look there~

 

There are no trembling hands

For the steadiness required is a flame with its purpose

To retain the measure of glow of love 

In the obedience of Master’s Command

To achieve its desired state which is the key

Which is the desirable roamings of this traveler’s gaze.

 

Standing there,

Beggarly on the outside so that those that have no eyes to see

Only see a plain man,

Disrepute in their choice.

 

But if you were there

And with eyes to see 

You will perceive that this is simply the sultanate of a great Sultan,

The destroyer of falsehood,

The annihilator of 

 

I am here and not here.

 

Is he who now stands with his hand outstretched 

Offering the Key of the Command

And as he stood,

More spit came and fertilized the ground on which 

Ibrahim Adhan’s feet are planted

Giving rise to a revelation 

Of a heavenly garden beneath his feet.  

 

There the unmentionable flowers

And the created interplay of their shadows 

Are all mingled in becoming and unbecoming 

Displaying a place of Hallelujah’s Glow

Calling measure to bear taste 

In Treasure’s Grade.

 

If I were you and I was in the crowd,

Passing by with my head in shroud,

I will progressively abandon

The perishing steps

That I am taking to outstrip my succeeding attempts

To reach the gate

For I would stop there 

Just in time to perceive a family

With a child,

The child breaking away from his parents

With speed

Heading directly to Ibrahim Adhan

Grabbing his hand as if to receive the key

And pulling his hands down to the notion of acceptance,

Pulled him as if directed by a supreme cause,

Towards his family.

 

The mother in turn

Realizing that the son has torn from her hand directly

Towards a hideous looking stranger 

Became afraid and disgusted,

Darting towards her son

To prevent him from being contaminated

By whatever element 

Of whatever of the thing

That stood by the gates of the mosque

With his hand outstretched for God knows what

And for God knows whom

May have,

But before she could take such actions,

The father,

Without looking at her 

With a single gesture 

Restrained her with his arm 

Stretching it perpendicularly across her stomach

Holding her at a stand still

While gazing at his son 

Heading joyfully towards them

With the man who has a key.

 

Let us now be passed on to him.

 

As they reached the parents,

Ibrahim Adhan’s grin never changed.

He looked at them with the same gaze

As if he had been looking at them the whole time.

The son, 

Seven years old of age

Handed the hand of Ibrahim Adhan into his father’s hand

And fell silent without words.

 

The family,

With Ibrahim Adhan,

Stood there in silence

All four holding their own individual grin

In one charismatic expression

To indicate that a station has been reached.  

And that clenching tides of ancient waters 

Have released her preference from the depths

Making them seem as if they were flowers 

Gliding on a stream.

 

The father, 

Led Ibrahim Adhan to his home 

Where he was bathed without commotion.

Without reservation

He brought the covering cloth 

Of his wife’s wedding garment

And covered Ibrahim Adhan with it

And it was covered with flowers.

Bright flowers.

 

After feeding him,

Ibrahim Adhan calmly collected the boy onto his lap

Ushered the parents to come closer to him

And as they sat watching the man from the mosque,

He gave them the discourse of the Sultan,

Which was the key to the mosque.

 

Pointing his right forefinger to his tongue

He said

 

The ineffable crossfire gazing

That is the sultanate 

Is unmentionable

For who is there to be mentioned to?

 

And if there were someone there to be mentioned to,

What would be mentioned?

 

And who is doing the mentioning?

 

And in the mentioning, 

 

What are the measurements and proportions 

 

In accordance to the audience and the reception

 

In the grades of servant platters

That could be the nourishment at the reception,

 

Who would be doing the eating?

 

And who is doing the serving?

 

For in serving, 

The realm is established 

That there is a kingdom.

 

In the kingom,

The realm is established that there is a sultan

 

And if there is a sultan,

Than the sultanate has ministers

And courtiers

And messengers

And admirers

And admirables

And all that forms the retinue of a great monarch

 

And yet,

 

Who was there?

 

Who was there when the command came?

 

Who was there that could say,

 

Here I am, 

O my Lord,

Here I am.

 

Who was there to record this saying

And transmit it from the Book of Ages

So that its home in the hearts of pious personalities 

Can be a signal to ineffable realities.

 

But who could be there?

When there is no one there to be mentioned

Because back then,

You were a thing not mentioned

And the unmentionability of the mentioned

Has become the possibility of the impossible

Presenting us with a riddle of the sultanate

That a sultan has subjects

And subjects have a ruler.

That is,

A pattern

Imprinted upon the court of the sultanate 

To comprise the happening state

Of the status graze

But if this rising is possible, 

Where would it be rising to?

And from where would it be rising from?

Since there is nowhere for there to rise,

And there is no rise in anywhere to come from,

How could such a thing be possible

And yet,

There it is..

And yet,

I,

Ibrahim Adhan,

I am here telling you this

And you are here hearing this from me,

Me telling you that what I am telling you never was

And that there is no possible way I could be telling you what it is

And yet,

As surely as you could hear my speech,

I am telling it to you as clearly as I see it

And at this sight,

What it’s seeing is what is there.

But how could we see if there is not there?

Or if there is here

Since that’s what possibilities recommend 

They are recommendations of the activities of Master’s Hand 

Who runs the archives of the historical findings.  

 

But who found? 

And what needed finding?

And what was lost?

 

Since losing implies decimation of the sultanate

And since there is no such thing as decimation of the sultanate,

Then who lost and who found?

 

And when it was found, 

How did the finding see to seek to find?

 

But all this is what a sultanate prescribed

And all this is what the unmentionalby quality revived

At the moment when the desire arose in the 

 

I am a hidden treasure, 

That longs to be know.

I created the creation 

That I might be known

In my hiddenness of the treasure,

I hugged you in my womb

In the unpreparedness of my uncreativeness

Adn in my desire to uphold you,

I brought you forth as a loveable thing

So that I might be known through you of my treasures

Hidden within my bosom.

 

This is what the throne of the sultanate proclaimed

At the houre of provlemation and 

In the being of our lives

When the rising that rose said,

 

Am I not your lord?

 

And the culminated respond said

 

Yes indeed, you are.

 

This binding servitude is the pronouncement of the name of the sultanate

In the realm of rulership 

And here,

Ibrahim Adhan

Looked at the family that have received him into their home

With kind eyes 

Full of hope and openness,

Tears streaming down his cheeks

As blessed waters

As the hearth heath

He said,

 

Bismillah ar-Rahman ir-Rahim.

 

After that, 

He was directed to his bedchamber for a goodnight sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The President Wins Again

A leader is someone who inspires.  A leader is one with a vision.  A good leader is a human being that strives to make humanity better.  Barack Obama was re-elected for a second term as the President of the United States of America on Tuesday, November 7th 2012.  The year that many say will end it all, we stand on the plane of a very new beginning.  A clear shift has been stated in this election cycle that effects not only the United States, but the entire world.  For the second time, the world breathed a sigh of relief that the citizens of our great nation made the better choice for humanity.  The people voted for the people, and they won.  Twice.  Against stronger opposition and a gargantuan increase in campaign spending thanks to a handful of billionaires paying to keep their way paved, the American people have voiced the statement being shouted all over the world.  Echoing the Arab Spring in the tone of the civic process, we too have stood against the minority keeping the majority in chains.  Slavery never ended, simply morphed into less visible restraints.  And the people have had enough.  The most beautiful thing in the universe is balance, and from balance comes harmony.  In harmony, things move smoothly and sweetly in a song that is divine in nature and honey in our ears.  Alit with the flame of death better than indignation, Mohamed Bouazizi, struck a match of himself and ignited a region wide plight for democracy and equality, a chance of living a prosperous life.  Just before the turn of the year 2011, Tunisia was engulfed in rage against the regime of Ben Ali and shook so loudly they tore apart the structured workings of a 24 year attempted dynasty.  Little media coverage, but big demands, Algeria, Jordan, Oman and Saudi Arabia.  Then Egypt, a mere 28 days for Mubarak to secede, then Yemen, Sudan, Iraq, Bahrain.  Libya, overthrowing a defiant Ghadafi, Kuwait, Morocco, and Mauritania all ongoing protests.  Lebenon’s conflict that turned revolution on February 7th, 2011 ended in December that year, but Syria’s crisis bleeds on and on with the rest of the world in political deadlock over how to help.  These are just one area in the world engaged in a struggle for human rights.  In South America, protests.  In Europe, east and west, protests over austerity measures and unemployment.  So many people having such a hard time living their lives in a dignified way where at least their basic needs are met.  And isn’t that the job of government?  To ensure that the constituents, the people who have given their individual power up to a collective body of representatives for order and prosperity, are able to lead healthy and productive lives.  That is the system for a working nation.  One that is forward moving, learning more about the world we live in, what is beyond and what is within so that we might be closer to finding that feeling that everyone wants, the feeling of home.  The more we know, the more at home we feel in this universe of ours.  The better able we are to overcome the adversities that have burdened humanity for so long.  The sun rises each day so that it can set so that it might rise again.  That is its movement, intrinsic and precise, that leads our lives here on planet Earth.  And we in turn, rise each day to sleep, to, we hope, rise again tomorrow.  And for what?  To not gain anything with the passage of time?  Why would you wish to live the same day over and over again, where nothing changes, and you simply have nothing sharp, nothing hard, nothing remotely abrasive around you so that you might never have to feel any semblance of pain.  This, is the way of the ruling elite that, since the harnessing and hostage taking of natural resource all over the world, have had the major influence and control over the direction of the world.  In essence, redirecting how the world turns in manipulative grasp towards their corner and hordes the spoils to rot under fewer hands than could ever hold the bounty.

Backwards.  This is backwards.

This spirit goes against the very nature of what government and public service should be.  Those that consider themselves politicians will always be those that try to dictate a way of life that only benefits a minority.  Those that know they are public servants will always work for the good of the people.   This oh so historic US Presidential Election has cemented the call of the voices from around the world.  We want change that will move us forward.  In Barack Hussein Obama, we are most fortunate to see a true leader for the 21st Century.  Being hailed as a strategical genius, he maneuvered his way against the most ardent opposition from the other side of the aisle than has any other president in US history.  The first black president in a land that has thrived off of slavery for a very long time, has caused an uncovering of the racial problems that have never gone away.  When you see him overcome with emotion thanking his campaign staff for affirming the things he believes in, you see that he truly does believe in his message, and he truly does want to make a positive difference.  This is not about us and them, or I and they, this is about truth and humility, honor and justice.  These are the character traits that the world has seen in Obama.  Through the decisions that are horrifically challenging to make, President Obama has stood a very clear line of proper behavior, reminding us that valiant public servants do still grace our bureaucratic tendencies, giving hope for people like you and me that if you do care and want to make a difference in the world, you can.  So let us raise our voices to the sky, triumphant, that we are helping create a better world for all, and let us never forget those who are in more need than us.  Taqwacores, this is our time.

by Mani De Osu

Sufi Soul ~ Music in Islam ~ Part 2

We’re Not So Different, You and I..

At the base of all things there is a common thread.  This common thread is the beat of the heart that moves the world of life and in this bond we are all bound together as one and the language spoken here is that of music and art.  Music and Art are the two things that show undeniably the existence of a central and unified intelligence.  In this video we see Georgians, Bulgarians, Africans and Vanuatu Islanders all utilizing the same tenets in their musical and artistic expressions finding the geometric simplicity of the circle in the complex connections that are the conduits for energy in E8 in the linking of their arms, the crossing of harmonies and melodies in their tones that intuit the markings of a much greater than expected understanding of the truest nature of all things.  As this truth, simply put, we have the ability for earnestly understanding the beauty of the collective entrenchment in the Ultimate Reality.  

Syrian Taqwacore

DIY DAMASCUS: INTERVIEW WITH SYRIAN PUNK BAND, MAZHOTT.

Posted by falafelwarrior, (Marwan Kamel) December, 2009

Everything is more complicated in the Middle East, even playing punk rock.

It’s difficult for us, punks in the First World, to really understand true love for punk. We’re spoiled. With somewhat cheap equipment, tons of places to play, and no one determining what you can say,  starting a band in the US is relatively easy.

This is Damascus, though. If you want to play punk, you need to really want to. The hand of politics is everywhere. Both US foreign policy and domestic law can make or break your band:  trade embargoes determine whether or not you can get equipment and censors make it difficult to speak about any real issues.  While the suffocating restrictions and obstacles are annoying, the fact that the punks exist is a testament to their perseverance.

In this interview, Rashwan, from Syrian band, Mazhott (Diesel in Arabic), shares their story about playing their brand of Arabic-infused, old school, pop-punk.

So, how did Mazhott start? Why did you start the band? Tell me the story behind it

Me and Dani, the drummer, started around 2007. I had a couple of songs that I had written, and I was “bandless,” but then we called up a few friends to get a bassist. We called it, “mazhott,” because it’s a funny word in Arabic, so we thought it had a certain shock value. This kinda name had never been used for a band name before [here]…

It’s a funny word, but it also reminds me of the petrol sellers that come around in the morning for heating oil. Did this have any effect on it?

Well that was the idea, a catchy, unusual and everyday name. And its not a very loved thing–the heating oil or the sellers,
because of the noise they make…

[laughing] That shit can be annoying… So, instead of hitting metal gas tanks, you’re doing it with electric guitars. Are there a lot of kids in Syria that are into punk?

There are, but they are mostly after what’s on TV. And since Green Day’s American Idiot went big, punk has been spreading–although people don’t know what punk is, so we’re trying to let them know ..

Yeah, it’s difficult to face up to the pop music industry. It seems like anyone that is trying to do something new, has to find a way to spread their music underground. Are you guys handing out your demos for free? How did you guys record?

Well,  I recorded everything at home, using Fruity Loops for drums and a small, [chat] mic for the rest. We’re try to hand out CD’s
and promote them on the internet, but it’s still very underground.

Man, you guys are tech savvy.  The last time i was in Syria, there weren’t that many computers around at all.

[Laughing] .. Well, it has improved in this context, but not so much on the internet, though. I mean, I’ve been telling people for ages to check out our songs online, but they just look surprised. Yeah, I am telling you, man, people are crazy lazy over here.

That can be a problem in terms of DIY, but you are pulling it off. Did you guys have any problems starting the band, like in terms of equipment or even in terms of getting a space to play?

We still have [problems], man.  I only have a guitar, but no amp, and Akram and Kareem (guitar/bass) don’t either. We still don’t have a place to practice, so we have to rent a place each time, and it’s pretty fucking expensive. It’s like almost impossible to get a gig, unless you’re very lucky, so we play for free all the time, whenever we get the chance.

You mentioned to me before that you guys canceled your last show because people were “fucked up”? What did you mean by that?

Well, the audience would have thrown eggs and tomatoes at us and beat us up, man.  So, we decided not to do it, because they were not the kind of people who would appreciate out music or anything like it.

Yeah, I guess that’s always a problem with shows. It’s never good to not play to the right crowd. You guys need the crowd that comes with a bunch of beer. I usually like to wait until people are drunk to start playing. You guys need to get sponsored by Barada Beer (Syrian national beer brand).

[Laughing] We are thinking about it, actually.

You guys have played in some pretty cool places though, like in el Medine 2edime (Old City). How do you guys pull that stuff off?

We got lucky actually, but having Arabic lyrics helps. There aren’t many places to play here except the Old City, so whenever a band wants a gig, they go there first.

Have you played in other cities in Syria yet?

No, not yet. There’s no such thing as touring here, and the percentage of people that listen to rock, in general, is very limited too.

There’s a lot of metal in the Middle East these days, but punk is a different ballgame. Why do you think that there aren’t that many other punk bands forming?

Well, the thing is, people, here, don’t care much about either punk or metal. So, anyone that plays an electric guitar is a metal-head
in Syria, and [they] think punk is silly, or whatever. Metal fans say it’s too easy, so it’s not good enough. But, normal kids like it, somehow, because it’s more poppy in a way.  You know?

Yeah, and metal is sort of banned here, so it’s difficult for us (Syrian punks) too, since we’re connected to it.

I think that also might have to do with lyrics too. Metal lyrics can be really cheesy, sometimes. Maybe, your lyrics are more relevant to peoples’ lives. What do you guys sing about?

We sing about stuff that matters to young people, in general, and social [issues]. [For example], the high school diploma, here, is unbelievably difficult, so, we wrote about that. We wrote about fathers forcing their young daughters to marry older men, about our generation that is frustrated and lost and don’t know wot to do with their lives,  about less separating of boys and girls, and about how we need more attention and freedom.

So, why do you think that punk and metal are banned? Does anyone cause complications for you guys playing at all?

Well, metal fans, here, are considered Satanists, so they’re opposed by everybody. And, yes, we have had some problems of that kind, but not big ones, since we sing in Arabic, which is a very positive thing, actually. People can relate more to the songs and it’s something new, so they get more interested. I think, since we’re an Arabic-speaking country. it would be stupid to write songs in English.

Yeah, I know what you mean. A lot of bands, in the rest of the world, think that it’s better to write songs in English because it’s more international. But, punk is always local at heart, and it’s our way of talking about things that matter to us. I guess, it’s difficult to do that in syria, without getting too political, so that you don’t have any “friends” from the government come visit you.

Yeah, we try to stick to social stuff. We have a song about corruption, though, “Baba.” If you’re a son of someone, or know someone important, people treat you different–or they treat others, with no connection, in a bad way. You know? Those things ..

Do you think that the future of punk in Syria is different from the rest of the Middle East?

I don’t know, actually, but I sure hope so. Rock bands are realizing the importance of writing in Arabic, which could make a better future for rock, in general, including punk. But, punk is getting noticed anyway–much more than it used to.

So, what’s coming up for Mazhott? recording?

Yeah, hopefully,  and more gigs!

How can people get in contact with you or hear your music?

They can email us on Myspace at http://www.myspace.com/mazhott or http://www.reverbnation.com/mazhott or on our group on Facebook.

Hey, I’ve gotta go the place (internet cafe) I’m at is closing.  Salam.
Alright, Peace.
-Marwan

~Now, this was before all of the protests and the revolutionary spark.  We are waiting to hear back from Marwan about the state of Mazhott and how they are holding up during all of this upheaval.  Insha’allah they are all well and staying strong.  Insha’allah.

Police of Vice and Virtue

After a creature dies, there are a few electrical pulses that shoot through the body as the last exodus of the spirit.  Much the same is happening throughout the Arab World right now in the wake of the Arab Awakening.  The powers at large are doing their very best to hold on to their stranglehold and the people are saying NO!  The latest act on the stage of the world is  head of Iranian security forces, Brigadier General Ahamdi Moghaddam is deploying 70,000 basij or police of vice and virtue if you will, to eliminate the Western Cultural Invasion which no doubt effects attitude and susceptibility to autocratic rule.  Not that it took the Western way of life to bring people’s minds to the fact that they are being stifled by their governments and hard nosed extreme traditional clerics, but the dress and cultural emulation does signify a visible change in their despotism by outwardly proclaiming they will not be quiet nor quieted towards the ruling parties or sects.  In Iran the wearing of necklaces and “glamorous” hairstyles for men will be no longer tolerated along with shorts and for women, loose hijabs and tight overcoats, showing any skin will all be grounds for arrest and surprisingly, Ahmadinejad has been attacked for negating the hijab violations.  Showing signs of understanding to keep face with the people perhaps, what we are seeing is the polarization between the old and the new that will most certainly bring about the new age.  In the throes of protests and civil wars the idea of wearing shorts and having a “glamorous” haircut, wearing lipstick and having some shoulder exposed seems like a luxurious form of dissent rather than bullets and Molotov Cocktails, but these are all the faces of the changing Middle East.

Hair India

From the honest thought of honest offering, poor Indians give the only thing they likely own, their hair.  In the temples their sacrifice is pure and what is it to them what happens afterwards?  The act to them is the most important thing.  But on the other side of the temple, out the back door in boxes goes the hair to Western countries obsessed with looking more and more beautiful, no matter the cost, no matter where what they require came from.  It makes you wonder if both sides had knowledge of the other would they participate willingly like they are?  Or would they like to make some adjustments be it asking for a simple appreciative acknowledgement or giving back in aid of a better life to those who are making the beautification process possible.  The donors are said to not care for an offering to God is an offering to God and there is no payment or appreciation necessary aside from the blessing of God which no one else can give.  The receivers are no doubt less thankful than they likely should be which is the result of the rampant insatiability of the idealism of Western Beauty.  The most ironic part is the hair being sold back to wealthy Indian women who are emulating that very beauty ideal that has swept the world.  From temple to penthouse, slum to salon, Indian Hair is making a worldwide journey as offering of both religious and secular executor.

Virginity Testing from Al Jazeera

 

The story related to the article The Last Flails of a Dying Idea, from the young woman’s personal experience of being abused by personal greed and oppression of men/women.

21st Century Slavery

The blue jumpsuits of the brown skinned workers file to the grounds of the 2022 Fifa World Cup site in Doha, Qatar.  The dress has changed, but slave labor is still the moving force of physical production, construction and manufacturing.  In Doha, migrant workers have paid four month’s wages for visas just to be able to get to a place where they can work.  Making $300 USD a month or less, conditions are just a hair better than they were in the times of sanctioned slavery.  The egyptian slaves did not have such luck as to have human rights groups attempting to champion their safety and health.  The west african slaves did not have a monthly paycheck promised, even though there are rancid reports that many workers now are going unpaid.  What has changed is the construction of the pyramid.  What has changed is the crop to be picked.  The skyscrapers and mega-complexes so beautiful and futuristic in their end result, the hands that build them are the same dark skinned hands that have built all the world.   The pharaoh now wears a suit and calls himself a businessman and developer.  A savior of humanity from the tyranny of the monotonous face of 20th Century architecture.  Flat slabs, bland walls and not but 90° angles conquering the limits of the mind encapsulating ideas in the status quo of factory lined mass production, they have fashioned themselves a god by funding the vision of an artist holding the glory as their own.  The Caesarian complex plaguing those holding money as power are stuck in the same conundrum Julius himself found himself in:  building for the betterment of the people, depreciating the value in the lives of those spent to lay brick to mortar, now glass to steel,putting some above others crusading not for humanity as a whole, but only the few thought to be worth delivering from the confluence of uniformity.

From the dawn of agricultural societies, some 10,000 years ago, slavery has been a necessary part for one party to accomplish more than they might on their own.  The “human appetite [being] essentially insatiable” ~Pir Oveyssi, Sufism The Reality of Religion p.68, those uncontrolled in their desires will always seek more than they need subjecting others to accomplish their aims with a blatant disregard for the fundamental requirements of those they enlist.  The same requisites as they themselves hold, if they were obliged to share even a fraction of them with the workforce would be left in an undesired place to say the least.

The 21st Century offers a way beyond this archaic system of a brute labor force where the technology is as such that most of the building process could be mechanized freeing the hands of men to work at bettering the mind thus bettering their mental libation to the world at large catapulting us forward exponentially.  Leaving us only with the challenge of creating an educational system that stands for the valor and dignity of the capability of mankind.   The beauty of mankind is that her gaze faces the stars.  We are not limited to seeing only the earth beneath our feet, and we must exercise this knowledge and appreciate this gift by allowing all minds to contribute the most they might to humanity, bringing us all closer to the heavens on earth.

The Qatar Foundation is “unlocking human potential” in their motto, but will not fully succeed until the capital city of the country moves beyond slave labor into fair wages and treatment of workers beginning the process of assimilating all peoples in their quest to “reign to meet the challenges of an ever-changing world.”  We are all one together in this world and we all deserve the same regard as latent in the promise of birthright.

-Mani De Osu

War Dance

by Mani De  Osu

 

 

If you lose your pace,

 

Find your rhythm in the ground.

 

The devastation in the shadows

Has dropped down the chain of command

And no one has seen the light.

 

I have heard this voice before.  It shines in the desert like the shining sun betrothed in the light of itself glorifying the beautiful dance of the red.  Since the day we were born, gunshots rang the hailing beat of our fists pounding the air for life.  But we are not bad.  We are not dead, and we long to live in peace.  With a sash of bullets and a purse of M16s soldiers pass my sister, she does not know that there is anything else to see.  But we dance, we dance and bend and our rhythm could shake the stars.  Here we are free and beautifully clear we are in our dance.  Hands moving from arms off of ecclesiastic movement, my dress floats like my voice and war cannot take me from it.

 

One day each month trucks come with food and we are always so hungry.  The line is crowded and something does not feel right.  The boxes of food say USA like hope may take us there one day, but in my heart, I want to stay at my home.  My home where outside of war the mountain is peaceful and calm.  The plains offer our nourishment and it is pure like my eyes.  My father has gone away.  Killed.  Into pieces buried by my mother, and I have seen it all, but my eyes are still pure.  For the horrors I have seen, I do not cry.  I do not cry anymore.  My mother taken, my father cut to pieces, and my brothers and sisters and I seeing ourselves in the flashing light of night gathered in darkness and now I cry.  Remembering I cry because things will never be the same.  We pray and my sister cries because she misses our mom.  We pray and pray that we will be safe.  Our faces in our hands, we are at the mercy of not ourselves.

 

The expanse of desert does not extend endlessly, we have a place to swim and play.  The sounds of bullfrogs call the ever-coming night and back in camp we work to keep ourselves strong.   I am strong, my music cavernous in the depth it carries for in me, I have seen the deeps.  In this I forget the treacherous things I have witnessed.  My brown eyes neared round the bend and at the schoolhouse for us they came.  Woken by a bayonet opening the door my hands groped for a place to hide.  Scurrying with no way out, trapped like bait in a cage, guns pointed and threats flying, my brother was beaten and taken, separated I have no other family left.  The rebels came and took and took and me I saw the most terrifying things.  I have seen the terror, blasphemy under the full lit moon and this is what I escape when I play.  I can beat the rebels to their end in my beat.  Pound them to nothing with my rhythm.

 

No stopping, no slowing, the round huts stand in circles endless in 50,000 homes for us to stay.  The collar on his shirt makes me wonder how we will do in front of a judge.  There is much sorrow and determination in our eyes.  There is wonder in the way that we sing Christian choral music and the rape of the African mind continues.  Always trying to appease the absconding of our culture but we only wish to win.  The blues of uniformed classmates, constant downturned mouths for some, the culture says, you shall not survive the winter.  There is something wrong.  I do not think that I should be living this way and in one mistake I have so much to do.  I am soft spoken because no one wishes the hear what I have to say, but I care so delicately for all in my charge and I sing sweetly to calm myself.  My mother in my dreams comforts me and in the fields we play.  I think of when they came and how she saved us, and we saw them crawling slow and low to the ground.  I cannot open my eyes too wide for fear that what I have seen will come back to my vision once more.  The smoke, the torture.  My eyes are fierce like a lion, my eyes ready to strike down the wicked prey that are the rebels.  But I cannot with force, so I must with my music.  I sing sweetly for the dead and for the living, I sing sweetly to ease my mind and soothe my heart.

 

Music like boats to let us sail away, cans like tin to make the sound of wind to move our musical ships.  The instructor has a rip in the right elbow of his shirt sleeve and we sit foot to foot and play our journey away from here.  Here we are free and our instruments are the vessels with which we move.  Heads bob and shoulders roll in opposing ways to create a random order but the teachers do not realize they are trapped in the white mind leading us all astray away from who we really are.  Who we really are are the origins of all.  We are the organic naturals that have led and given the world all that it is and has.  From us came the style, from us came the rhythm, from us came the resources to fuel all the world.

 

I came to the lieutenant to ask for my brother.  The rebel soldier kept must know where he is.  They treat me here like I do not deserve much help.  I hold my fingers and hear the news nonchalantly that due to orders he was killed and sitting face to face with a defected rebel tells me the truth, “When you have more children, you have more power.”  Through thatched roofs I do not know of the rest of the world.  The rest of the world does not know of me.  Yet I will be known.  God is mad, I think, but in reality he is not because it was not by choice I did the things I did.  There was nothing but destruction and absolute fright.  My eyes hold more than most of the world has seen in this time.  I did not want to kill them, but they had guns to us, no time to cry.  They did this to keep us from being children, from being life.  And then they told me I was brave.  No consolation for the act committed, no nothing could be done to save me from that part of myself.  They too, trapped by the white mind that says go and take what is not yours.  Take and take and take and do not leave until you have taken and raped all in your path.  And for what?  For what?  To impress the very people that only wish to cut them and take what they have.

 

With rhythm, we find how to move ourselves in freedom again.  We see ourselves released from the bounds of what we have been forced to see.  We get to be with all our family from many many generations and with big smiles we find the back and forth that has moved our tribe for all of time.

 

My mother is young like me.  We go to the spot where she buried my father and it opposes the luscious green of the field where he lies.   And here I cannot take it anymore.  I have not cried, I have not cried, and here I am where he lies and I wish only to lie with him in the ground.  I have turned into an invalid for my sadness.  It makes my mother sad and my head is stuck to my right shoulder in grievous play and my mother tells me it is not safe to cry this way.  There are rebels still and we sit and the air holds us full.  The clay bricks support our backs as I gather myself.

 

Plumes of white we make to feather our heights we will show to the world that we are not to be forgotten.  We are not to be dismayed because we are strong in ourselves.  For all the tremor, for all the pain, we smile and we smile.  We play and gather water for the real day we see the morning light.  For the real day we prepare for the light of our eyes to shine for the face of the world.  I am going because I must.  I must because this is all we have.  All we have is the rhythm of our sound and we will play and we will play.  A great send off to the wind of freedom.  To the protection of the road, God likes patience.  And in the city we have made our pace, steady with the rhythm of ourselves.  Steady with the heart that beats in all of us as one because we have all seen our own horrors that unite us in what we must overcome.  In our destination we reach our hopeful stance of letting our light be known.

 

Sleeping in our roaming lives, waking in our brightness, we walk and stand as one.  It is the shaking that gives us the courage to carry on.  We are all as one, if we lose our pace we find our rhythm in the ground as we are all together as one.  Our hope is one in our instruments as they are one with us.  They are our only escape from our closed eyes that have seen too many sordid things.

 

Now there is a jacket covering his torn sleeve and we move like we do to show our beauty to the world.  Leaning together in the sound we are bright like the day is light.  In joyous sound you would not know the things we have seen.  In our eyes now we have seen something new.  Now we have seen peace in a life we have not seen before.  We are the very peace we wish to live and in our hearts we are at home.  Our plumage out in white and red, we show that we are greater because of what we have seen in tri-patrios we prepare to show what we are.  We are the very life that was given to all, that has not been extinguished in the name of any malice or spite or trying to prove to the whites that you can be like them.  No, we are the light shining brightly in the betrothal of the day and our marriage call is our dance.  Our freedom song is our heart beat that carries us on and how do we see that we are one in many, and in the many we are one?

 

The drum begins.  The cry sounds the forward march and onward we go.  We find our rhythm in the ground of our sisters’ steps, of our brothers’ marching triumph in overcoming in green, white, red and tanned hide we are our own best friends dancing for what we are as freedom and peace.  We are our salvation as we move beautifully together as one and in our hearts we are the light.  We are free to be the life we deserve in the fresh air we feel our homes.  The homes that were taken from us, our parents that were taken from us, we smile and we smile as fearless happy warriors of dance and now in our eyes you see light, bright and full of the future.  You see us now not as unfortunate, but the brides of the future in glorious hope engaging stance and now you see where we come from and who we are.

 

We are the children of light, we are the children of the world, we are the children who will now not be forgotten for the glory we have shown of championing the wretches of man.  We are the ones who in the spirit of the all the beauty of the creation, in the name of the divine, have given a view of the voice you have heard before but never seen.

 

If you lose your pace,

 

Find your rhythm in the ground.