Thanking the Unsung Heroines

Couldn't have put it any better. Unfortunately, ours is a society that is not welcoming of such acts. I hope that changes. There are so many wonderful little lives looking to be loved.

Highlight of My Day - Inauguration Special

If there was one reason to watch the inauguration, this was it:

“REV LOWERY: Lord, in the memory of all the saints who from their labors
rest, and in the joy of a new beginning, we ask you to help us work for that day
when black will not be asked to get back, when brown can stick around, when
yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead, man, and when white will
embrace what is right. Let all those who do justice and love mercy say amen.

AUDIENCE: Amen!

REV. LOWERY: Say amen --

AUDIENCE: Amen!

REV. LOWERY: -- and amen.

AUDIENCE: Amen”

White Flag

I am tired.

Tired of life, tired of routine, tired of monotony, tired of me. I am tired of waking up each morning wondering what happened to the day before. Wondering which day of the week it was, and praying for the speedy arrival of Thursday, 5 p.m., where I will finally do good on the promise I made myself a lifetime ago to do something interesting, something different, something exciting, something rewarding. I am tired of doing the same thing every work day, of reading the same websites in the same order, looking at the same figures, same multiples, same companies, same chemicals and projects. An endless stream of numbers, names, and symbols that mean nothing to me, and will never make enough sense to become more than a worker bee in a highly competitive hive. Tired of coming home to yet another unbending routine of chores, of tv shows, and sleep. Only to wake up and do it all again. Is this how my youth will pass me by? Is this what I will look back on when I am past the so-called age of folly? I disappoint myself before even reaching an age of remorse and reminiscence.

I am tired of my own monotony. I am tired of not having the motivation or drive or genuine desire to make the effort to change. I am tired of making promises of exercise, of intellectual stimulation, of social reintegration - all of which I know I will break even as I make them. I am tired of being disappointed in myself. If I so flippantly and regularly let myself down, how can I expect others to not do the same?

I am tired of waiting for the phone to ring. I am tired of believing you will call. I'm tired of you letting me down without even realizing it, because you're too self-absorbed and important to notice. I am tired of wishing you weren't so perfect and knowing I couldn't find better. I am tired of knowing you will be the one that got away. And I am tired of knowing there is nothing I can do about it without obliterating the last tiny shred of dignity I have left. I am tired of wondering what I did wrong; why you never even gave it a shot. I am tired of feeling unwanted, unattractive, unloved.

I am tired of the lingering perpetual depression permeating my family. I am tired of watching us battle for every breath, claw for every smile, struggle for every moment's peace of mind.

I am tired of having no real talent, no niche, no dream, no aspiration, no future in mind. I am tired of kidding myself, making a fool of myself every day when I pretend to be an intelligent, educated individual with something to offer. I have nothing to offer but a vacuous, unthinking, porous lump of calcified matter in my head. I have nothing to say, nothing to add, nothing to create.

I am tired of mourning for a country which does not want to help itself. I am tired of looking out the window to see a woman living in a small garbage dump on the roof of a semi-erect structure with her poultry, her sheep, and her laundry hanging on a line only to be dirtied by the pollution in our smoggy, car exhaust-ridden excuse for air. I am tired of knowing that the establishment does not want to improve her standard of living because it would mean risking a revolution. I am tired of knowing that the revolution these people so desperately need would inevitably mean my own displacement, impoverishment, or death. I am tired of being the rope being tugged between two opposing teams because at the end of the day, I will be the only loser.

I am tired of feeling lonely. I am tired of feeling like a failure. I am tired of all my what if's, why's, and how come's.

I am very tired.

Choices

She soldiered on brusquely, constantly looking over her shoulder as if being chased by an unseen assailant. She had to keep moving, she had to keep her mind clear, fixed on its objective. She couldn't afford to loser her nerve now. Not after so many months of incubation, of fear, of meticulous planning. The stakes were too high, the consequences too great. She'd watched the leaves change as she waited for this moment. She smelled the flowers bloom when the package finally arrived. Backing out now was out of the question.

She fired several tuts in rapid succession at a man beating his donkey as she hurried passed. For all her 14 years, she still couldn't understand human cruelty. How malicious and violent towards creatures they depended on for their livelihood. Towards creatures offering purity and love in return. Weren't we all God's creatures in the end?

The package was held close to her chest, wrapped airtight in an innocuous black garbage bag. Her heart raced. It was a wonder its beats hadn't drowned out the roar of the traffic. The traffic. Hundreds of eyes glaring at her. Their glinting accusations merging into a river of blood, bile and milk as each car honked past.

She shook her head violently, trying to push the paranoia out of her head. Keep walking. Keep moving. March. March. Don't think. Her determination grew more steadfast with ever chant. Unconsciously, she gripped the package ever tighter; she only noticed when she gasped for breath, it had been pushing so tightly against her lungs. She had to be more careful. The package couldn't be bruised. It couldn't be disturbed.

Nervously, she eyed her passersby. Where they able to discern the contents of the package? Were those too glares of disapproval? Her worry quickly turned to scorn. Where were they to judge? Who were they to chastise, to invoke their honour as they stoned or slit her open? How could they know her circumstances? She was doing as best she could for everyone involved. Her conscience would be cleared tonight. Her conscience must be cleared tonight. No blame would be laid on her.

She glanced around her one last time and slipped into the dark, quieter alley she'd chosen a few months before. Close enough to the main street to be frequented, quiet enough for disturbances to be heard and hopefully heeded. The government-collected garbage cans lay sideways, overflowing. She chose the softest looking bag and shooed the cats away. Gingerly but rapidly, she placed the package in the midst of the rubbish and fled as fast as her feet could muster, back into the tide of Cairo's never-ending traffic.

But amidst and above all the sounds of the sleepless city, she could only hear the cries and wails of the package, as her blood congealed over his tiny body, attracting the cats' appetites, and the cold night breeze caused the bag to rustle over his mouth.

Her conscience did not clear that night.

Questioning Human Emotion in the Car

This is the train of thought I dabbled in (because we all know I am not conditioned to really think, just pretend to think - half-think if you will) on the way home from work today:

Today I was trying to figure out what feelings were. Why do we find it so important to feel, to have "real" emotions; why do these feelings make us human? Why do we place so much importance on how they make us different to other animals?

Not that I got any answers.

But to explain myself, consider this. If you went through life without much emotion - just the monotonous no feeling mode – wouldn’t you go crazy? Or at least think something was wrong with you in comparison to all the ‘normal’ people? We place a lot of our sense of normalcy on the ability to feel, the chemical changes in our brain. When those go wrong, we're labelled sociopaths, or psychologically unstable. An inability to empathise or experience emotion is deemed undesirable by society, by psychology.

But why? Why is "feeling" so important?

Each question leads to another.

Emotions are a focal point to every person. They almost dictate you to a certain extent. Why are feelings such an essential part to our being and humanity?

See what I mean?

Then I got Doolittle involved in my thoughts. She said that “Emotions may be an inconvenience, but no one can go through life without them. They are what we know, write about, read about, and feel on a daily basis. We have no choice. Someone who feels nothing is just an impossible idea.”

So I said: “people who are considered psychologically unwell are like that. People like psychopaths, serial killers, etc… they don't even need to be dangerous, they just don't feel the way we do.”

Doolittle: what do you mean? Of course they FEEL. I’d say they feel more than average amount of feeling. They do feel... It might not be the same, but the root of what they do comes down to simple feelings which are universal. Serial killers, people who are deemed psychologically unwell... I think they feel as much if not more than we do. They might do things which we would never be capable of, but the cause/reason for it is all about feelings/emotions. There is no way we can separate what we feel and what we do and how we are.

Then there are people who try to separate the two as much as possible. It’s like a scale. You and I belong on a kind of "emotionally restrained and protective" part of the spectrum. Then other people who can easily act on what they feel, people who you can see as being a certain way because of how they feel about things... they belong to another part of the spectrum.

Eureka: And at the end of the day, we are all dictated to varying extents by our emotions. Again, why is that the way we're wired? For example, why do we need to phrase our sentences with respect to the feelings of those we are speaking to? Isn’t that a form of limitation on expression?

Doolittle: It is. We are trained not to hurt people.

Eureka: Doesn't that pose as a form of violation of that fundamental right? 

Doolittle: In a way… There are just unspoken, unseen lines in the sand sort of thing. Limitations which we can’t change.

Eureka: So, once again, we are limiting ourselves because of emotion. We are dictated by it. Why do we need emotion?

Doolittle: We don’t need it. It’s a part of us/part of everything. It’s a thing we have zero control over. 

Eureka: Our hands are a part of us. Our noses  are a part of us. Blinking is a part of us. We do not obsess over there. They do not have a significant say in our lives. So why do we place feelings  on such a pedestal? When I have dry eyes, for example, or a broken finger, I do not lock myself in a roomand mourn my very existence. But when my feelings are hurt I’d rather lock myself up than face the world. They have a stronger influence than the rest of me. The human is conditioned to place their emotions on a higher level than their physical selves. And their perception of their physical self is  influenced by their emotions. 

Then we got sidetracked by the entry on Wikipedia for "Emotion," and how we liked to look everything up in reference books because we needed to know everything. Which lead to the importance of bibliographies, how tired we'd become of the same old Cairo night scene, Nabakov, and the first sex scenes we'd seen on television as children. 

Yes, we have a very eclectic shared stream of thought. Makes for more interesting conversations. 

But back to my original half-baked thought. What do you think about feelings? Are they as important as we make them seem to be?

All Too Common

She soldiered on brusquely, constantly looking over her shoulder as if being chased by an unseen assailant. She had to keep moving, she had to keep her mind clear, fixed on its objective. She couldn't afford to loser her nerve now. Not after so many months of incubation, of fear, of meticulous planning. The stakes were too high, the consequences too great. She'd watched the leaves change as she waited for this moment. She smelled the flowers bloom when the package finally arrived. Backing out now was out of the question.

She fired several tuts in rapid succession at a man beating his donkey as she hurried passed. For all her 14 years, she still couldn't understand human cruelty. How malicious and violent towards creatures they depended on for their livelihood. Towards creatures offering purity and love in return. Weren't we all God's creatures in the end?

The package was held close to her chest, wrapped airtight in an innocuous black garbage bag. Her heart raced. It was a wonder its beats hadn't drowned out the roar of the traffic. The traffic. Hundreds of eyes glaring at her. Their glinting accusations merging into a river of blood, bile and milk as each car honked past.

She shook her head violently, trying to push the paranoia out of her head. Keep walking. Keep moving. March. March. Don't think. Her determination grew more steadfast with ever chant. Unconsciously, she gripped the package ever tighter; she only noticed when she gasped for breath, it had been pushing so tightly against her lungs. She had to be more careful. The package couldn't be bruised. It couldn't be disturbed.

Nervously, she eyed her passersby. Where they able to discern the contents of the package? Were those too glares of disapproval? Her worry quickly turned to scorn. Where were they to judge? Who were they to chastise, to invoke their honour as they stoned or slit her open? How could they know her circumstances? She was doing as best she could for everyone involved. Her conscience would be cleared tonight. Her conscience must be cleared tonight. No blame would be laid on her. 

She glanced around her one last time and slipped into the dark, quieter alley she'd chosen a few months before. Close enough to the main street to be frequented, quiet enough for disturbances to be heard and hopefully heeded. The government-collected garbage cans lay sideways, overflowing. She chose the softest looking bag and shooed the cats away. Gingerly but rapidly, she placed the package in the midst of the rubbish and fled as fast as her feet could muster, back into the tide of Cairo's never-ending traffic.

But amidst and above all the sounds of the sleepless city, she could only hear the cries and wails of the package, as her blood congealed over his tiny body, attracting the cats' appetites, and the cold night breeze caused the bag to rustle over his mouth.

Her conscience did not clear that night.  

Tuesday Morning

He walked past the woodcutter’s makeshift workshop, briefly closing his eyes to fully absorb the warm smell of freshly cut plywood against the crisp charred cinnamon effused by the heavy oak. The sound of the machinery did not disconcert him the way it did his sister. On the contrary, it was a strange sort of comfort to him. An assurance that it was a day just like any other. Nothing extraordinary would happen today. There was no need to worry, no need to think. It was a day like any other. He would not turn grey today.

He stopped for a moment, pretending to look both ways before crossing, though he knew the street’s beats better than his own heart’s. He just wanted an excuse to breathe in the planks’ refreshing simplicity once more, to allow the invigorating vibrations of the saws one more chance to rouse his soul. He counted to five, and sure enough, on the fifth beat the red Daewoo pick-up loaded with vegetation rumbled passed. The street was his timepiece. The woodcutter’s his gauge to the day’s mood.

He sighed and half-skipped across the broken asphalt. He did not feel any differently. The sun was blazing in the early morning smog in typical March fashion, brazenly evicting the wisps of winter the city coveted. The sandstorms would begin soon. He gazed at the austere blue sky, wondering which palette it would choose this year. Would it select last year’s abundance of oranges and pomegranates or revert to the safe saffrons of more conventional seasons? Or would it decide to turn the city beige, blinding all inhabitants in the endless yards of fabric as it had in 1998, frightening all the children. The factory warehouse behind him will probably fade further. Although he couldn’t really imagine how much of a change could happen to walls already indiscernible from desert dunes. Had it not been for the handful of terra cotta shingles remaining on the disintegrating roof, no one would even remember that solitary memento of Soviet days of yore.

The bakery was approaching; the air was becoming grittier. So much flour lost because of its capricious nature, always duped by the breeze’s transparent seductions. It was only destined to be dropped at the first hint of tedium, to be perpetually trampled on.

The loaves were of pitiful size and quality, but they would have to do. They were all he could afford, especially with inflation taking its toll on even subsidized bread prices. He was getting less and less for his painfully pursued pennies by the day, the hour. In some cases even the minute he thought, recalling how the price of tomatoes shot up five piastres as he stood in front of the grocer, mouth agape. His brow furrowed at the thought of arriving to the point where even his measly loaves would become a luxury. They already were in a sense. Those miniscule slabs of plaster and gravel, barely large enough to cover his palm.

He spat and banished the thought as he surveyed the mob he would have to shoulder through. It was a day like any other. He refused to grow grey today.

In Honour of the Egyptian Parliament

They finally passed legislation banning FGM. Certainly took them long enough. Coincidentally, this month's flash fiction piece in Campus Magazine is about FGM. Aren't I psychic?

It's Called "Nesma".

Mama and Baba are fighting again today. They are fighting about me, like yesterday and the day before. Something about a lady and a word I don’t know. Hon-or? I should ask Naeem what that means. Naeem is in fifth grade, he’ll know. He’s the smartest boy in his class. Baba says he’ll be an engine. Mama says he’ll be a doctor. I don’t want Naeem to turn into an engine. They’re hot and dirty. I want Naeem to be a plane driver so he can take me up high in his big plane. Naeem says he would if he could. I start first grade next week. I don’t want to but Naeem says I will like it. He says all we do is colour and nap. I still don’t want to.

Mama says it won’t hurt. She calls me into her room and talks about being a woman with res-pect. I don’t know what that means either, but I won’t ask. Baba is angry. He tries not to show me and smiles in a thin line. Like he does when Teta comes to visit. He is hiding behind his newspaper and it is shaking. How can he read something that’s moving so much?

A big fat lady with three yellow teeth and black dots on her chin came to see me. She smells funny. Like the incense Mama burns on Fridays but also like sweat and meat. She has lots of thick gold bracelets on her arms. They cover her almost to her elbows. She’s like the cows at Giddo Hamza’s. You can hear them a million kilometres away because of their bells. Giddo says that’s how they find cows in Swizzerlan. He says there are many cows there because it is all grass. And chocolate. I want Naeem to take me when he gets his plane. That’ll be our first stop because we both love chocolate. And Giddo can come to buy a new cow.

I don’t like the big fat lady. She smiles too hard. Baba doesn’t say hello to her like he usually does when people visit. Usually he even says hello to Teta and he doesn’t like her. If I tried not to say hello Mama would spank me hard. That isn’t fair. Baba just left and slammed the door. I wonder if Mama will spank him when he gets home.

Mama just made me lie down on the table. She says the lady is going to make me pretty. I tell her Baba says I’m already the most beautiful girl in the world. She tells me to do as I’m told and looks at me scary. I lie down and stare at the crack shaped like a bunny in the ceiling. I call it Rosto and make it my pet. I will make everyone say hi to Rosto and will feed it when we have lunch.

The fat lady takes a shiny blade out of her sleeve, like the ones Baba uses to shave. Is she going to shave my face? I lift my head to see but Mama pushes it down and holds my hand. She smiles but doesn’t really. I’m scared now and the big fat lady takes off my panties. Mama always says I shouldn’t let anyone do that but she’s letting the fat lady do it to me now.

She puts something cold down there and then the whole room spins and goes very very white and I see a big bumblebee buzzing and buzzing and buzzing around my head in front of my nose and I want to scream and shoo it before it stings my nose but I can’t move and I can’t breathe and I can’t feel anything and it lands on my nose near my eyes and stings me and my nose becomes a big balloon that pops and falls off in the big fat lady’s rough red hands.

Mama cleans me up and put me to bed. I fall asleep. When I wake up Baba is sitting next to me holding my hand. I put my hand to my nose to check if it grew back. It did. I lie back, whew. I tell Baba about the bumblebee and my nose growing back. He smiles and says he has a present for me. I take it and open it and it is a pretty new pink and yellow dress. I give him a kiss and tell him not to leave me because I don't want to close my eyes in case the bumblebee comes back. He says he will make sure it doesn't come back. Baba will protect me and I sigh and fall asleep.

Bob Geldof with George W. Bush in Africa

This is just unbelievable. Bush can utter a coherent sentence sometimes! I am shocked.

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/africa/article3510768.ece

Spaz does not find this the least bit funny however. I know she's right, but I couldn't help giving you reason to giggle.

Oh, Ye of Fickle Faith

Some ignoramus on television said the alleged 'martyr' Saddam Hussein was sorely missed or something along those lines and I am now in dire need to vent a little, so please indulge me.

2006 bid the world adieu by delivering a final act worthy of all the drama it had provided us with throughout the year. On December 30^th, former Iraqi dictator, Saddam Hussein, was executed by hanging. The execution was particularly poignant due to it coinciding the first day of Eid Al Adha, Islam’s most important celebration. Almost immediately after, the Arab world hailed Saddam a martyr, an Arab hero.

The choice of Saddam Hussein’s execution to fall on the first day of Eid Al Adha was not planned for him to be revered. It was not chosen to spite the Muslim world. Saddam Hussein’s execution was a cause for celebration for the Shiite populace, and thus executing him on their most important religious festival made perfect sense to them. Calling Saddam Hussein a martyr and a hero is not a rebuke to the alleged American involvement in the proceedings but a slap in the face to each and every Iraqi who suffered, who lived in fear, who died in agony, under Saddam Hussein’s tyranny. It is an insult, an affront, to the very core of humanity.

This is not a declaration of support for the American invasion of Iraq, nor of the prolonged occupation. It is a reprimand, a cry for the awakening of the Arab world. Saddam Hussein’s totalitarian rule led to the inhuman torture and massacre of millions of innocent lives. Saddam Hussein assassinated countless mothers scrambling to protect the children in their arms. Saddam Hussein even had his daughters’ husbands slaughtered before their very eyes. Saddam Hussein mangled and ravaged a nation – a fellow Arab nation – beyond repair.

Do not revere a mass murderer merely because you disagree with the legality or circumstances surrounding his execution. Do not bestow martyrdom on a man as guilty of genocide and mass torture as Adolf Hitler and Augusto Pinochet. Hitler is not applauded because his suicide is seen as cowardly. Do not let Saddam Hussein’s ostensibly “brave” death redeem him of his innumerable crimes against humanity. For regardless of your political beliefs, your anti-American sentiment, or your apathy, Saddam Hussein was first and foremost a cold blooded killer. Don’t take my word for it; ask the two million families still mourning their loved ones.

In Need of Good Luck? Eat a Child's Heart

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7200101.stm

Now I am all for a Truth Commission. However, I also believe common sense should be a prerequisite for amnesty. So, should Milton Blahyi be forgiven for speaking up or does the fact that he led the assassination of 20,000 people supercede his confession?

Torture Techniques: USA v. Nazis

The USA is naughtier than the Nazis. Surprised?

http://andrewsullivan.theatlantic.com/the_daily_dish/2007/12/best-of-the-d-2.html

Good read, so finish it.

Your Friendly Neighbourhood News Round-up

Dear Egypt,

I regret to inform you that you are not as inventive in your law-enforcement techniques as you would like - and have led your populace and the rest of the world - to believe.

Yes, yes, I know. Don't look at me like that. It shook me to my very core, too. I'm so sorry to have to be the one to break it to you.

But no, you are not the pioneering mind behind mass arrests.

Once again, you have been thwarted from that honourable position of eminence by our team's QB, the good ol' US of A. Damn Yankees...

Don't look so glum, though! There's some good news! You're still leading in that other race you're in!

YES! You're in the running for gold!

16 more people have perished in yet another ferry accident, totalling about 30 this holiday season.

Feels good to be number one, doesn't it. Don't blush and scuff your shoe on the ground like that, you know you deserve it. Modesty doesn't become you, dear.

Now don't you fret about the whole mass arrest thing. Look on the bright side, Hoover suggested it in 1950, and didn't even go through with it.

So, I guess you still win on a technicality. You're still at it, 57 years later.

You go, girl!

Yours,

Eureka.

P.S. I'd look into setting up a YouTube channel if I were you. Can't have QEII all hip and you still admiring your picture in the newspaper. Get with the times, love.

To Thine Own Self Be True

One would think that a national identification card would be issued with accurate, necessary information informing the authorities of your name, rank, and serial number. The basic information that serves as evidence to your individuality, to avoid mistaken identity or whatever.

If my memory serves me correctly, in the majority of the world – that is, the civilized world – the requisite information would be name, possibly physical characteristics, social security number, address, and some other form of emergency information such as blood type.

No where in the world is RELIGION designated as a requirement.

Except in Egypt, the land of civilization.

Why?

Why is which faith – if at all – I follow at all important to the policeman writing up my parking ticket? Or the bartender looking at me with suspicion because even though I'm a university graduate I still look no older than twelve? (Except for the boobs. Those give me away every time).

Assuming (and this is a long shot but I always give people the benefit of the doubt. Even the Egyptian government and it's phenomenal stupidity) that a plausible reason can be established, then any faith should be allowed onto my ID card, right?

WRONG AGAIN, BUCKO.

Not only must I allow my private, personal beliefs to be branded and publicly displayed to all and sundry to see, but I must fall under three distinct categories, those of the three "revealed" religions: Judaism, Christianity, or Islam.

So if I'm Buddhist, tough cookies. I have to pick one of the aforementioned.

Can I leave it blank? Uhhh, no.

Can I have it say 'other'? Nuh-uh.

Can I put in atheist, non-believer, apostate, or even infidel? Nope. Nein. Non. La2.

This is a dramatic debate in Egypt at the moment, with entire communities being shunned, tossed into bureaucratic limbo, or worse. Thousands of people, including Baha'ai's, atheists, and those wishing to convert from Islam are being denied the fundamental human right to choose their personal beliefs.

Now Egypt has signed and ratified the UDHR, the ICCPR, and the ICESCR; documents collectively known as the International Bill of Human Rights. In more than one article, these documents specifically guarantee every human being's right to believe in whatever they want, whenever the want, wherever they want. Islamic Shari'a calls for tolerance and acceptance of those outside the three "revealed" religions.

Thus Egypt, as a Shari'a implementing country, as a member of the international community, and as a signatory of countless human rights conventions, has no right or reason to limit individual freedoms.

Aside from finding pleasure in ball breaking and generally creating more problems for an already struggling populace, what benefit or reason allows the state to use religion as a way to further torture us?