Thursday, October 28, 2010

The Theft of Memory (4)

The greatest asset of power lies in its reprimands to those who seek to unite themselves with the past. Contemporary democracy does not allow thought to flourish as a derivative of memory. It strives to separate the process of thinking from its roots, to annul reason and prohibit the masses from claiming the heritage of their ancestors. Democracy divests a revolution of its relation to the people by presenting the option of elections. In its ultimatum to any people who cling to language and history, democracy reminds its citizens of their vestige of rights - the compensation for reducing their memory to a vacuum.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010


the sheets regurgitating blood betrayed
the raucous bodies stilled in stilted seconds
stuffed in dead eyes, words writhing away
from diaries written on flowers that hibernated
at the sound of shelling dissolving the logic
of meaning in countries striving to restrain the sea

the sky lowered a basket brimming with water
soaking lullabies evaporated by thunder

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

The Scent of Nostalgia (9)

If power admonishes the people who refer to history, the masses should stage an intellectual revolt. A way of mellowing the cry against injustice is by appeasing the people with words that are less than an apology and a travesty of the roots of justice. Power expects society to conform to its rules and assume the identity of the defeated. If society rises above the mendacity of contemporary democracy and its assumption that rights are equivalent to freedom, it might be time to unite the revolutionary singer to his audience once again.

Monday, October 25, 2010

Administering a Form of Justice (34)

In malfunctioning forms of justice, the imitation of amnesia is sanctioned by the marble halls.

The manipulation of laws by corrupt puppets in power allow a victim to be shrouded in vague statements, in order to protect the identity of those who deem their actions to be more honourable than the will of someone whose citizenship is not restrained to a single country. Inconsistent testimony is allowed within the rigmarole of rights that does not concern itself with 'lesser' blood spilled on stolen land.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Administering a Form of Justice (33)

The acquaintances of malfunctioning justice revel in the language of violence and intimidation. Distorted social norms expect victims to conceal their wounds and wither into oblivion, whilst reminding the rest of society that power rises above any law. Power is competent in exploiting its victims to gain an undeserved admiration, whilst concealing the reality that ridicules society's dignity in a parade of defence within the imposed incarceration.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Reality, Rights and Revolution (2)

The power that rules society tries to separate our identity from the history we never witnessed. Society is taught acquiescence as a skill for survival, which ensures the dictatorships of elected governments. Revolutionary thought is displaced and dispersed and culture is riddled with the rigmarole of accepting to be ruled. Instead of coherent protest and revolt, people are allowed the sole luxury of moaning and rallying around partisan parties in false hope, spending a cluster of years in waiting instead of deciding and acting upon the philosophy that the revolution is decided by the masses. Any act of protest by puppets in power is a sham that strengthens their reign over the conquered.

"Constantly denouncing the government, with contempt for the risks and dangers, is like a whip in the hands of a lion tamer." Fidel Castro Ruz

Thursday, October 21, 2010

The Scent of Nostalgia (8)

The voices within the revolutionary songs have transcended the violence of illegitimate governments that sought to annihilate the people they wanted to conquer. Years before my birth, in the island of contradictory landscapes and in the narrow land, the definition of patriotism went beyond a flag. It resonated within a song, resided in the minds of the people who mattered and endured the years of exile with a conviction. Years later, I find myself reading a poem to cultivate the yearning to belong to the culture that manifests itself thousands of miles away, living a metaphor that does not infiltrate the consciousness of society on the fictitious island.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Administering a Form of Justice (32)

The illusion of rights compels humanity into servitude and abominable gratitude. When violation of freedom occurs on a level concerning justice, a circle of begging, pleading and expectation is created, allowing the perpetrators time to consolidate their position of power. The distance between the social classes becomes irreparable as people in power revel on their pedestals and conjure up new strategies to prevent the unity of society.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Realities (5)

Within the confines of contemporary democracy, people are burdened with the theft of memory. Certain portraits of history are relegated to the irrelevant, leaving a void that strives to reach to its roots. Within the rights flaunted by society, there is the silent oppression that reminds you to remain with the majority. So some words lose their definition and others swell with the frequency of use, whilst society gazes at itself and laments the loss of its identity through the purging committed by the representatives of democracy.

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Land of Paralysed Butterflies

This is the link to a poem I have had published in Palestine Chronicle, entitled Land of Paralysed Butterflies.

The Dictatorship of Democracy - A Reflection (3)

The sealed boxes were piled into the vehicles under the nation’s scrutiny. A dreamless sleep would be sacrificed tonight as the responsible citizens awaited the result of their involvement on the pavement of politics. I leafed through the pages of a battered book discussing democracy, colonialism and freedom, wondering whether intelligent minds might find a solution to the discrepancies offered by democracy. The intrinsic need of the population reduced us to beggars, in order to conform to the laws deeming the magnified surnames our masters.

As I stared at the length of dull paper speckled with colours and boxes, I was overwhelmed with the lack of historical fragments to influence my thinking. Unlike the old men puffing on pipes, my mind was unencumbered with suffering and speeches. I was unable to remember the past which adorned a country with a memorable uprising. My years devoured mention of the era because I had also hoped to lead a revolution for the people. But after those years, rebellion was tamed and fractured into policies, and the tattered clothes replaced with elegance. Society was splintered into echelons which rendered towns superior to the ploughed fields on the outskirts of the villages.

The invention of these lengthy papers prompting our acquiescence was attributed to the definition of democracy. My last glance at the pristine paper was brimming with vehement epithets at the social inequality which rendered all our actions futile. Our jailed freedom coerced us to be loyal to a pretentious system, which rendered our spontaneity a rigid routine. Back in the safe crevices of the rubble walls, I waited for a memory which lacked my participation, to assail the present with a loud roar defining the dimming sunsets I had not been able to witness.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Administering a Form of Justice (31)

Exile within a democracy is sanctioned by justice and carefully altered to blend in the atmosphere of alienation surrounding the people. Victims are created out of a fabricated conspiracy and the solution of exile soothes a frayed conscience that beholds justice as a chore. Meanwhile, the silent autobiography seeks to conquer an illusion of justice presiding over fabricated borders, and the cry from the island of contradictory landscapes wafts closer to expose the fiction created on a fictitious island.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

The Dictatorship of Democracy - A Reflection (2)

The declining days refused to grant us liberty. Our minds were perceived as passive and persuasive, and the colours frothed with rigmaroles designed to promote the narrators’ superiority. Shades born from mellow sunsets protected our autonomy, and together with the aged society which nurtured us, a dissenting uproar emerged which muted the efforts of colours to stain us with their indoctrination. We had recognised the injustices of which declared the necessity of natural rights to be ridiculed and reduced to a gift bestowed upon violation.

Tiny, sterile cubicles adorned with plain desks and wobbly chairs sprouted in every town and village. Each cubicle boasted of a grubby pencil attached to a length of string. Every mature citizen was expected to lead a revolution which would question the significance of trusting the magnified surnames to address the country’s needs. To our dismay, the contesting colours declared a rebellion sanctioned by power, exploiting the raw theory of nature against political dynamics. The citizens understood that the fabricated insurrection ridiculed the dignified spirit of the oppressed. But we had been tamed to oblige the despotic surnames which praised us for being an accommodating population. Beyond the safety of ancient rubble walls, we might have fallen in love with our role.

Minutes trickled into our skins, prompting us to walk towards the institutions founded to nurture our children. Groups of colours congested the pavements, regaling the shadows committed to dependability with pasted smiles or volcanic frowns. Each resonating step muffled the anthem of nature’s patriotism; our allegiance to colours whose shades we could not decipher except by name denigrated our hearts. We were taught to succumb and be scorned after making sure the graphite did not spill out of the printed squares.

My distance was parallel to the emptiness which should have been crammed with nostalgia. Peeking through the sheer drapes at the pavements burdened with empty, patronising minds, I tried to reminisce about a past prior to my birth. I was told it was an era marked by poverty, pride in a nation, and embroidered with speeches from an orator who inspired resilience in his followers.

Monday, October 11, 2010

The Dictatorship of Democracy - A Reflection (1)

I grew up learning about colours and the importance of not mixing them to form other hues. That process of creativity was reserved for the power that dictated democracy.

But the carriage plundering the alleys of forgotten villages reeked of a philosophy termed modernity, which was laden with concepts such as emancipation, economic growth and dignity. The villagers yearned to pursue the meaning of these laborious words and deserted their fields to purchase tomes burdened with definitions defining contemporary vagueness. The smell of soil lingering in farmers’ caps recoiled from these books, in which resided a verdict usurping ploughed lands. The shy snails and lizards hidden behind rubble walls feared us.

Awareness of our development was calculated by subtracting the years left for us to assume responsibility. As we aged, other colours emerged and defined their existence as a resistance to vertigo which lured the masses to seek valleys which alleviated their fears. The subservient populace speculated about the dangers of dissecting colours and adhered to a single shade, confirming an allegiance which flourished during the spaced routine of shameless democracy.

Exercises of separating history from present circumstances were parallel to stagnating in memories. Faces peered from massive billboards, either smiling or pondering the passing pedestrians. Emblazoned beneath the portraits streamed the rhetoric posing as metaphorical speech to create an illusion hovering between intellect and presumptuous rebellion.

My favourite strolls took me to the village squares, where benches staggered under the weight of old people brimming with memories of turbulent times and experiences which reeked of colonialism and upheaval. The servitude of our nation was mingled with resentment and appreciation. When I listened to the narrations, images of uniforms, pale faces and enforced humility sprang to life. Echoes of labourers toiling in fields conflagrated in the spectres of abodes demolished by the war.

I listened to hunger and poverty lisping the suffering of families in an elegy of tattered clothes. My age counted the crumbs of bread carelessly brushed off the table to be swept away. The child hibernating inside me thought of saving the baked dough to feed the sparrows hopping on the windowsill.

Weeks ago, I read the proclamations of colours vying to confuse and convince. Many villagers expressed the need of consulting dictionaries to discern the meaning of words which were given a new eloquence with every democratic exercise. The magnified surnames sharing a common culture with the insignificant masses looked down from their pedestals at us; fossilised specks on an ordinary tile. Our astonishment ventured to peer at the surrounding pristine tiles. The adjoining boundaries were threatening to limit our movement.

Sunday, October 10, 2010

Administering a Form of Justice (30)

It is a necessity sanctioned by justice that the invisible narrator remains exiled. In the politics of democracy, the notion of majority shields itself in numerous cloaks to hide its putrid facade. The same rigmarole of elections is implemented in malfunctioning justice - with the slight difference that makes it more treacherous towards the society it pretends to safeguard. During elections, the alienated masses have knowledge of their opponents. With certain forms of justice, the invisible narrator remains an abstract within the identity forged by the author of silent violence.

"Justice remains the tool of a few powerful interests, legal interpretation will continue to be made to suit the convenience of the oppressor powers." Ernesto Che Guevara

Saturday, October 9, 2010

Hasta la victoria siempre! Venceremos!

A little town witness to the execution of the revolutionary now holds a remembrance that spans across the world. Imperialism is deficient in philosophy - it flounders in its thirst for blood and expects history to neglect its own recollections of the companero who shunned borders and citizenship, embracing instead the ideology of liberation. The false triumph that echoed with the murder of a revolutionary now seeks its own annihilation, as the words from the embodiment of loyalty resonated through and beyond the island of contradictory landscapes, to inspire a revolution that seeks to conquer through embracing thought and exposing the fallacy of the political frame that categorises its followers into majorities and minorities.