We Have Not Forgotten The Congo !

The Vault

Amaar stood still taking in the sterile environment. He had no idea what he was doing here. The manager walked in slowly, looking every bit the Bond girl. “Mr D’Angelo , an assistant will be with you shortly, do have a seat. You have half an hour by yourself in the vault, after which you, along with your possessions, if you choose to remove them, will be escorted to your home.” 
He smiled at her, “I hardly think I’ll need that much time.” He replied. 
She left the room.  
He exhaled. 
“What the fuck is this place?” he thought to himself.

The assistant arrived with a rectangular silver box, it had a single slit in the middle. He handed Amaar a card and left. 
Amaar looked at the box. 
He walked around the table so that he was standing in front of the slot. 
He took a deep breath. 
He inserted the card into the slot. 
The box beeped and a draw slid open…

Inside on the plush velvety fabric, lay a nondescript brown envelope and a very familiar, worn out, tiny hessien sack, with a drawstring.

Rahma… he gasped. 
The room swirled. 
His head swam.

Slowly he reached for the envelope because he already knew all to well what was in the sack. He opened the envelope grudgingly, the thick white paper felt heavy in his big hands. If this was from the same Rahma, he was certain life would never be the same again.

Amaar                                           12/07/2010

I am amazed at how fast 14 years have passed beloved, there were times I thought it was at a standstill to torture me, but I look at Zahreen and I am certain that time does indeed heal, and that life’s plan unfolds in a manner mortals could never understand.

I still remember the day I left. Us at the airport holding hands. You promising me that nothing would change, that you would always love me and that as soon as you had sold enough paintings you would come to see me. You hid your sorrow well. You were so happy for me. You thought the only reason I was leaving was because I had received a scholarship and was headed to Nairobi for my research.

You were almost right. It was that and ... Zahreen. Yes we have a daughter. Yes she’s beautiful, yes she has your eyes and your dry sense of humor and yes she’s an artist just like you.

           

I am sorry my love, I realised how high the stakes were and how many peoples hopes were pinned on your success. You always said that you would never leave your mother and siblings the way your father had and that as the eldest you had to make sure that you gave them a good life, it would be your gift to your mother, you were tired of watching her suffer silently.

I always thought that after you graduated I would find you and tell you what had happened and why I really left, but when the time arrived you had already moved away, moved on, committed to someone else.

Zahreen thinks that you were killed in a mountaineering accident on Mount Kilimanjaro the month before she was born. If you are reading this letter, it means that I am dead and that Rushda has managed to locate you (she has always remained a loyal friend as well as the only other person who knows the entire story). Zahreen needs you. She has no one else except Rushda and the world can be an unfriendly place for a teenager.

There has always remained one truth and that is that I have loved you completely. I did what I thought was best under the circumstances. I am returning the silver amulet you gave me to mark our second year together. Please give it to Zahreen after you tell her the truth. She has always loved wearing it.

Take care of yourself

Take care of our daughter

All my love

Always

Rahma

Amaar hadn’t realised he was crying. 

His body shook violently. 

The door opened slightly, sir you have five minutes remaining in the vault. 

He sat down with his head in his hands and attempted unsuccessfully, to calm himself.

Wear It Alphadi Style...

Alphadi is a Tuareg fashion designer often known as the "Magician of the Desert". He was born in Timbuktu but moved to his parents native Niger at a young age. He is responsible for bringing the traditional attire of the Tuareg and Dogon ethnic groups to the ramps.

He incorporates his heritage by pairing the cloth with linen textured block-print fabric and his intermixing of fabric, and essentially culture, that has paved the way for many other African designers.  Alphadi pioneered the first ever International Festival in Africa.

First as Tragedy, Then as Farce...

The Dancing Girls of Lahore

(Picture: http://lahorenama.wordpress.com/2011/02/13/dancing-girls-of-lahore-call-time/)

A year ago a fine man told me to read The Dancing Girls of Lahore by Louise Brown and this week I finally got down to it. The Heeran Mandi - the Diamond Market - lies in the shadow of the Badshahi Mosque built in 1674 by the last of the Mughal Emperors.  In Mughal times the district was celebrated for its courtesans whose poetry, dance and manner were sought after by princes, nawabs and dignitaries. 

However the advent of colonisation and the influx of British troops to the region changed the face of the business. The British had no interest in the stylised recital of beautiful poetry or traditional Khatak dancing – where even the slightest movement of the hand or eye are part of the story-. The demand was for hard sex!


Things have not changed much since the Raj and the Heeran Mandi remains infamous because very few dancers have the means or inclination to study Kathak or sing in the classical styles. Instead the women of the Heeran Mandi and Tibbi Galli (where the women sell themselves for mere cents) learn their moves by copying Bollywood actresses and the current clientele, usually men from the middle and lower income groups, seem to prefer this anyway.

Brown’s research spans over four years of visits to the Heeran Mandi. Where she lived in the house of Iqbal Hussain, a famous painter whose roots are deeply tied to the area. However she spent most of her time with the whores, musicians and the transvestite community and her book follows the story of their lives. I was really caught of guard by the communities deep sense of religion and spirituality mostly because of my own ideas on how these terms are defined.

In the past few decades the police and government have clamped down heavily on 'trading'. However this hasn’t been successful in curbing, and is far from ending, sales. Firstly because government officials and police are among the main ‘consumers’ and secondly because many of the sex workers have aligned themselves with pimps and moved into the suburbs where there is greater anonymity and a richer clientele.

Most of the women that work in the Heeran Mandi are from the Kanjar caste and are therefore born into the sex trade and pimped by their families. The ways of the caste and living within the community does offer a degree of protection, that those working for pimps in the suburbs do not have. 

I'm certain that no one would willingly choose this lifestyle but it is a demand run business and for some reason even though there are derogatory words in every language for sex workers there are none for the men that ensure the survival of the industry.

  *For further reading on the subject you can check out:  
   Faryal Gauhar’s novel The Scent of Wet Earth in August and Fouzia Saeed’s Taboo

The Google Toilet

To Hell With Afrikaans !

(Source: Google)

"Each generation must, out of relative obscurity, discover its mission, fulfill it, or betray it."
- Frantz Fanon

The Soweto Uprising, also known as "June 16", was a series of student-led protests in South Africa that began on the morning of June 16, 1976. Students from many Soweto schools began to protest in response to the introduction of Afrikaans as the medium of instruction in local schools. An estimated 20 000 students took part in the protests. 

The accounts of how many people died vary from 200 to 600 ,with Reuters news agency currently reporting there were "more than 500" fatalities in the 1976 riots . The original government figure claimed only 23 students were killed. The number of wounded was estimated to be over a thousand men, women, and children. it was later found that most of the wounds recieved by the protestors where in the back clearly indicating that the majority of the victims where running away.

The Rift Widens

There I was, standing on the east African shore, pondering piracy and wondering if climate change and the natural disasters elsewhere in the world had anything to do with the unusual rough seas and exceptionally high tide, when I heard the beep signalling a message on my phone. My thoughts, staying with natural disasters, twisted slightly:

You've heard the old adage: If a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it, does it still make a sound . . .
Now I wonder if a natural disaster happens in Africa, and CNN is not there to report it, is it still newsworthy?
Apparently not. Of course the news power houses will argue that they are restricted from reporting from Eritrea, as the government has stringent regulatory measures for foreigners and reporters but the fact of the matter is that Eritrea was struck by a series of Quakes this past weekend, the highest apparently being close to 6 on the richter. The seismic activity triggered the eruption of a previously dormant volcano in the Rift Valley, named Nabro that has been spewing ash up to 13 metres high and most air traffic in east Africa and the Arabian peninsula has been affected.

This hasn't made news probably because it isn't a Chilean disaster affecting Caucasian new zealanders or an Icelandic unpronouceable freak show landing traffic in Europe.
No, this is just some pathetic pariah spoiler state that is more like a wart in the side of Americas darling Ethiopia. Oh but wait! Poor Hillary has to cut short her trip to Addis! And there I was thinking someone actually cared if some Habashis and Afaris are displaced or if flights can't land in Asmara or take off from entebbe? (for ignorant American reader, these are places in Africa, yes it's a big ass continent larger than your supersize me MacD's)
This is Africa, sub species dont deserve the same coverage as the fairer race! As it is, these monkeys breed like rabbits! Besides, we weren't planning a summer safari in Africa this year anyway!

My Pet...

(Picture: google)

The snow leopard (Uncia uncia or Panthera uncia) is native to the mountain ranges of South & Central Asia. They live between 3,000 and 5,500 metres above sea level in the rocky mountain ranges of Central Asia. Their secretive nature means that their exact numbers are unknown, but it has been estimated that between 3,500 and 7,000 snow leopards exist in the wild. Snow leopards cannot roar.

The World's Greatest...(Z's Exam Anthem)

Let's pretend....

... that the proposed resolution that the P3 (USA, France & UK) are pushing for to "protect   
    civilians" in Syria isn't a repeat of the "all necessary measures" Libya resolution (1973)

... that Israel isn't the real drafter of the resolution 

... that this isn't a way to take out Assad and take over Al Sham

... that the crusades ever ended

... that Israel gave up on the idea of river to river (from nile to euphrates)

... that the resolution on Syria is not really about Palestinian statehood

Fulani Women Of West Africa

                                            

(Picture Source: Google)

The Bureaucratisation Of Numbers

Last week while watching the kick off to the extremely, impotent Bosnian Butcher war tribunals and leaving aside the shock and horror I felt at the fact that, Mladic - who is due to stand trial on charges of genocide, war crimes and crimes against humanity for his key role in the 1995 Srebrenica massacre and other atrocities during the war in Bosnia- will continue to receive his monthly pension payments. It appears that the world pays for bad behaviour. Thus far he has pocketed about $72000 and counting. I guess Justice is a word better served to the poor and the non- European.

I got to thinking about the news in general and how one cannot help but wonder whether news watchers are sadists. We’re like those old aunties that press away at their little electronic tasbeeh counters the only difference being that we aren’t counting prayers. Or maybe we’re more like vampires (and here I don’t mean the effeminate high fashion meets Gucci model pasty white, Twilight types but the blood and gore thirsty monster types).

We seem to love counting the dead, the tortured, the raped and the wounded and the higher the numbers the better. Even as you read this, stories of the mass rapes in the Congo are making news editors drool even though the rest of the fighting and displacement has had dismal coverage in the global media.

The tragedy of course is that we never seem to go beyond the numbers to the fact that every digit represents an actual LIFE. Its history, hopes, dreams, love stories and its undone and unsaid. Apparently some philosopher’s already thought of this (man these guys leave nothing unnamed), it’s called the bureaucratisation of numbers*.

So no matter what the struggle or the circumstances were and no matter who you were or what you believed in, the only thing that will matter in the end is the number your corpse gets... a fitting memorial don't you think?

*Hannah Arendt (October 14, 1906 – December 4, 1975)

The Berkutchi Of Kyrgyzstan

(Picture:fuckyeahinternational.tumblr.com)

Every year in late August, Kyrgyzstan natives hold a hunting festival to revere the golden eagle. Eagle trainers known as “Berkutchi” are highly respected. Golden eagles play a vital role in aiding hunters and shepherds, as eagles control the foxes that hunt flocks.

Never Be Daunted...