Pictures from the Statelessness conference

word

On my left, famous stateless Dominican- Haitian activist Sonia Pierre speaking

Next to Maria Otero, US under secretary of state for democracy and global affairs

Reading of my speech about the stateless of Kuwait

* Pictures taken, with permission, from MOSCTHA.

Tweet-Poems

He is dead. The End.

Picture of 18 year old Ahmed Al Shebani who Killed Gaddafi today

Um Poema Na Ardósia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

Photo Credits: Rui Gomes Coelho

The Beat Generation Tour

What am I but a Beat Generation fanatic; my senior thesis was on the image of America in the poems of Allen Ginsberg and Arab poets and this is all what I want to do in my graduate studies. The Beat ideals, methods, madness, screams, expression, and rebellious soul are the ones I relate to most, and I have previously dared to call the rising Arab generation "The New Beat Generation"; one without a face, though.

Last week, I got the chance to achieve one of my biggest dreams when I had a walking tour around New York City visiting the places where the Beat writers used to hangout, live, drink, buy their books from, meet, and read their works. New York is not like Paris as it doesn't care if a famous writer or artist lived in this or that place, because the capitalist question will always be the loudest to be heard "Turn a place that a writer once lived in, to a museum? who will pay for that?" so unlike all the writers' maisons I got to visit in Paris two years ago, New York has no special treatment for them and unfortunately no one thought of doing what Lorca once has done in Andalusia leaving marks on the places where the best minds of his generation lived.

I surely did not get the chance to visit all places; directions are not easy to catch, and time was too short, however I tried to visit as many places relevant to Kerouac and his masterpiece On the Road. I didn't take pictures of all places especially those I got to during the evening, therefore, I will surely have to revisit these spots next time.  

[Click on any of the pictures to see it in full size].

In this Italian restaurant, William S. Burroughs used to invite his Beat friends to dinner.

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"Cafe Wha?" is the place where the Beat members used to go to listen to music, mostly Jazz. Great figures like Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix performed in this place.

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Caffe Reggio is a very simple and intimate place in Greenwich Village. It was not only a place for the Beat writers to hangout but also the site for Bohemians, a John F. Kennedy's speech, and some shots from Copolla's The Godfather II.

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In this basement bar called "Gas Light Cafe" the Beat recited their works. Bob Dylan has also performed there and lived in the upstairs apartment for a while. A teenager working in the shop next door told me the place changed its name six time, the last to be "106" and that it has had hard times. Unfortunately, many beat-relevant places are vanishing, getting neglected, losing their spirit, or even shutting down, as I've discovered in this short trip.

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In this building, Lucien Carr lived. He was the one to have introduced Burroughs, Kerouac, and Ginsberg to each other. He was the one that introduced Ginsberg to the writings of Arthur Rimbaud. Kerouac used to visit Carr in this apartment, and while sneaking out, once, Jack fell and injured his head.

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The White Horse Tavern is a bar where Jack Kerouac used to go drink sometimes. When talking to the bartender, he told me that they used to write 'Go home, Jack' in the bathroom so when he reads it he will remember to leave! The place was also a spot for Dylan Thomas, Norman Mailer, and Hunter S. Thompson. Kerouac lived across the street for a while in this building:

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Our Lady of Guadalupe is one of Kerouac's favorite churches. You have a weird feeling when seeing it left out of the 'developed' concrete atmosphere where one can notice the huge tasteless buildings, the metro stop, the bus stops, the European tourists, the tired workers, and the arrogant lunatic taxi drivers.

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In this apartment, Allen Ginsberg lived for a year. A passer-by gave me an absurd look for taking pictures of someone's door and did not hesitate to ask the question. When I answered, she replied "Ginsberg who?." I was of course disappointed.

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In this building, Jack Kerouac wrote his masterpiece On the Road. The building is getting renovated and I could not get in to see his apartment. One of the construction workers was nice enough to let me stand in front of the door and take a picture of me.

أكره العناوين

أكره الذين تجاوزوا تجربة الحب الأولى

أكره رجال أمن الدولة وضحاياهم

أكره الأمهات ممن رزقن بأبناء فاسدين

أكره الرجال الذين لم يقتلوا نسائهن الخائنات

أكره الشابات اللواتي اغتصبن في طفولتهن

أكره الأنبياء الذين يضعون أيديهم في أيدي من ادعى الإيمان بهم

أكره الأطفال الذي يتعاركون ثم يلعبون سوية مرة أخرى

أكره الراقصات اللواتي لا يميزن وجوه عشاقهن القدامى

أكره البحر الذي يبتلع خراءنا ويبتسم أزرق

أكره النساء اللواتي يتخلصن من ملابسهن كلما هلت موضة جديدة

أكره العاشق الذي يعلم أن حبيبته تكلم "أحمد" لا "مريم"

أكره السحاقيات اللواتي يركعن أمام حبهن ويقبلنه رغم بشاعته

أكره من يحذفون مسجات الأصدقاء الذين رحلوا

أكره العظماء الذين نكتب عنهم دائماً ولا يمكنهم تمييز أسمائنا

أكره رجال الأعمال الفاشلين

أكره الشعوب "المضروبة بالجزمة"

أكره الراسبين

أكره المرأة التي عبرت ابنتها الشارع وقتلتها سيارة نيسان موديل 87

أكره العاهرات اللواتي يلبسن جلوداً جديدة كل يوم

أكره الحرية التي تحملت كل الهراء الذي قيل في حقها

أكره أدراج المدرسة التي تبقى صامدة في وجه المراهقات اللواتي يسمنها بكلمات أغانٍ باهتة

أكره الأرض التي مازالت تحمل اسمها رغم مئات الحروب التي انتهكت عذريتها

أكره مظفر النواب الذي يغير قصيدته كل مرة

أكره أم كلثوم إذا أدخلت "عودت عيني" بـ "يا مسهرني" تحت تأثير الكأس

أكره من يكررون مقولات بصياغة مختلفة

أكره صديقتي التي انهارت بكاء في امتحانات الثانوية

حين لم تعلم الأبيات الأخيرة من قصيدة إيليا أبو ماضي

...

أكرههم كلهم

لأنهم يعرفون كيف ينسون!

يونيو 2008

Nocturno

La lechuza ciega

No quiero una sala llena de novatos,
No, quiero que se vacíe del resto,
Pero yo sigo como la lechuza
Que callaba
Para escuchar a su voz.

Debo pensar como ser rica
Por muchas cosas.
Debo guardar aquellas piedras
Que me saludan, carcajeándose,
Por todo el camino.

El mozo pintado en mi blusa
Rechaza subir conmigo a la buhardilla ,
Por eso estoy sola,
... y ... no quiero.

Oh padre mío,
Mas que castigarme,
Tachamos todo lo que escribo ahora,
todo.



La flor de la tarde

La flor de la tarde
Viaja con los perfumes del aire
Y me cambia por un juguete mudo.
¿ Acaso seré entonces como aquella ´´Yo´´
que vi en el espejo ?

La flor de la tarde
Me abandona colgada por la suerte de la arena
Y los niños hacen de mi palacios,
El infierno,
aquel dialogo con la muerte,
O palabras grises
Que desean abrazar la pasión vital
Aunque por minutos.

Quizás una carrera para apostarse
Sobre una canción
de lo que queda de la flor de la tarde.



Agua sobre madera

En las costillas del infierno
Se atasca la perdición en la garganta
Entonces no podrás atacar la oscuridad.

Así clavamos la puerta con las lagrimas,
Nuestras lagrimas,
Pero no se desangra
Mas que madera.

Las hojas del cuerpo
Se levantan
Y el poema vibra.



Pájaro

Me inclino
Para que pase la tormenta
Sin tensiones ni olor.

El pájaro lava sus plumas.

Mientras vuela en su nube,
Nos invade una clara extrañez.



Una Aguja, quizás es del sol

Cosechamos las mariposas por las agujas
El invierno nos vigila desde la ventana
Pero le obligamos a llorar.

Desde soles,
escondemos nuestro catástrofe
sin perdonarle,
mientras el silencio de las historias
nos ata con sus negros hilos
y nos pinta el cuadro del abandono.



Nocturno

Noche 1

Dibujo una plaza inmensa,
Donde bailo con la muerte,
Y cuando acaba todo,
Descanso,
Pero me ahogo en el llanto.


Noche 2

Aparece una nube
Creo de Dios sonríe a los pobres niños.

La luna se transforma en media,
Quizás esta triste por la caída de un estrella.


Noche 3

Sobre la cabeza de mi padre
crece una palmera blanca ,
¿No se como la coloreo?


Noche 4

La lluvia no deja a mi padre
Que pinta la puerta de la casa,
Y no hace nada.
Mientras mis manos
que no me dejan volar como un pájaro
Los tiro una comida para los gatos.


Noche 5

Una vieja nace de un árbol,
Me ofrece una manzana envenenada,
¿Acaso me muera,
O convertiré en un árbol?


Noche 6

La herida de la luna por la mañana,
Me imita.
La sonrisa del sol por la tarde
Se ríe de mi.


Noche 7 – fin

La muchacha de ojos finos
Me acompaña siempre,
Así no dejo de ver la cinta
De mi muerte,
Cada noche.



Mona Kareem
Traducción : A. Sadoun - 2006

Twee Gedichten

De zwijgende uil

Ik wil niet dat de zaal zich vult met nieuwe mensen
Ik wil juist dat het aantal aanwezigen kleiner wordt
zodat ik het voorbeeld van de uil kan volgen
die zwijgt, zodat hij zijn eigen klank hoort.

Ik moet nadenken hoe ik
in alles rijk kan worden
Ik moet de stenen bewaren die mij spottend
op straat begroeten
Het jongetje dat gedrukt staat op mijn blouse
weigert met mij
naar het dak van het huis te klimmen
Wanneer de fout mijn recht aantast, Vader,
moet je van mij het oplosmiddel lenen
en het uitwissen


De dode lampen

Als we blind worden
herhaalt het duister de vraag :
Wie zijn jullie ?
"Wij zijn de kinderen die het bedelen
alleen maar verdragen bij de tralies,
die knagen aan de vingers, als de vaders"

De muurschildering is er niet meer voor ons,
het woont in ons als de engelen.
Er zijn niet meer zeven hemelen
en onze geesten worden weggestopt
net als de goedheid

De pijn en de hoop zijn zigeuners
die hun dochters gooien
op de dode lampen

De bloemen zijn zwart,
de leeftijd van de aarde
steelt jaren van het gras

De dansers van de dood in onze wijk
regeren meer over ons dan de koningen
en de moordenaars van de stad
houden ervan ons te bezoeken.
We hangen vlak naast een kind dat geboren wordt
en dat ons toeschreeuwt :
“Kan ik mijn moeder laten stoppen
met mijn geboorte ?!!”


-- Mona Kareem
translated by Mowaffk Al-Sawad
2006

Stiranên kurmênc

1
Her tim ji deverekê diçe devereke din.
deng ketî,
wekî erdê, dema ku tofanê lêstikên wê belawela kirin.
li dengê xwe guhdarî dike:
gelekî bilind û yax bûye,
gelekî fireh bûye,
têra cîhanê gişî dike..
Kurdistan têra wî dike…

2
hêstira xwe ya mezin datîne ser gerdenwazeya jina xwe
(welatek li ser welatekî)
baş amadeye ji bo firandinê:
dev li kaxetên fermî dikir, qirika fermanvan ceriband
û ba tevde xiste nav gumlekê xwe…

3
xudê heyirî li ber wî maye:
ev yê ku gelek vejîn bi dest wî de ne,
û giyanekî bê wênedêm,
giyanek ji bo hemû dêman,
giyanekî mîna fanêlla zarokekî,
bi şêraniya şînê lekedar…

4
Xudayê ku keskesorekê
û şeveke kevnar,
û (ezmanê heştan)
di dilê xwe de vedişêr e,
li ber wî heyirî maye.


Heyv

Wa heyvê,
ezê te bibim da ku pîrka min te bibîne
dengê min tê te?
û ji şaxên kîrazê, kumekî ji mêrkê havênê re çêdikim
û ji baweşînka min, bagerek wê rabe
wa heyvê,
li ser kursiya min rûne,
bihêle ez mûzîka xwe ya pirteqalî bijenînim,
ezê qeşayê li ser masa xwe bişkînim
heyvê,
findên xwe vêxim..
deftera min ya rûçelmisî bibe
heyvê,
teneyên tirî, li ser biguvêşe.
wa heyvê,
piskilêta min çêbike
û were em di beravên pêlê de melevaniyê bikin
pênivîsa min bibe,
sola min,
rastkêşa min,
çermê min, xûna min, dilê min..
tiştine ku tê wenda nekê,
heyvê.


Yadê

Ji teyrikan pêve, kes zimanê bê fêmnake.
da ku em hêviyên xwe ji agirê şewatê biparêzin,
em radiperin.
birînên me, hîn hene,
her zarokek ji me êdî bi stiran dunyayê nifirîn dike.
gangilîlk axivîn: zimanê dilan pûç bû,
gir bi mûzîkê dijîn, û bapîr vedigere,
da ku wenda bibe,
ma ev giş ne besî we ye?
heskirina dîn jî, me da jehrê,
û di êvaran de em roniyê belav dikin,
bihêlin em di gerrîneka serdema kevin de noq bibin,
bi temiyên Mesîh me newestînin
hemû xewnên me bi bê re
dûûûûûûûûûr firiyan,
firiyan cem wî bapîrê dilovan.


- Mona Kerîm
Wergerandina ji Erebî: Axîn welat
Published by Kurdish Magazine Tirej - 2004

Bahrain: Liliane Khalil, Another Blog Hoax or Propaganda?

On 2 August 2011, British blogger and PhD Student, Marc Owen Jones (@marcowenjones) wrote a post about his investigation into the identity of an alleged Arab-American Journalist named Liliane Khalil (@Liliane_Khalil). Jones traced back all the social media accounts of this persona, only to discover that she had made up all the events she attended, the interviews she conducted, and the people she met. In addition, she claimed to have worked at CNN in Atlanta and as a journalist for Turkish newspaper, “Sabah” who in fact denied knowing her. Three articles she claimed were published by “Sabah”, were actually copied from Reuters.

Jones also tried to analyze the relationship between Khalil and the Bahraini regime, especially since she was supposed to have been the US Bureau Chief of Bahrain Independent (a pro-regime newspaper that mysteriously disappeared). In her online communications, Khalil has been in favor of all Arab uprisings except for the one in Bahrain, which she described as a plan hatched in Iran. This has led people to wonder whether she is either an agent of Bahrain, or whether it could be a Western hoax, as in the recent “A Gay Girl in Damascus” blog, which turned out to be authored by an middle-aged American male professor.

Continue reading this post on GlobalVoices