''... afflicts us all''
"Too often we honor swagger and bluster and wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some look for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear: violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleansing of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.
For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is the slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.
This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.
This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all.
When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies, to be met not with cooperation but with conquest; to be subjugated and mastered.
We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.
We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community; men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear, only a common desire to retreat from each other, only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this, there are no final answers.
We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of others. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge."
- Robert F. Kennedy, April 5th 1968 -
Why does it feel like nothing has changed?
Must Watch
Anthony Fabian directs this drama based on the true story of Sandra Laing (Sophie Okonedo/Ella Ramangwane), a black girl born to two white Afrikaaner parents (Sam Neill and Alice Krige) in South Africa during the apartheid era. A genetic throwback to the mixed blood of previous generations of her family, Sophie's skin colour causes problems for her bigoted father and her all-white school, which expels her despite her family's attempts to have her classified as white. Later in life, Sandra again causes shockwaves when she decides to marry a black man and have herself reclassified as black.
We are that reality.
"We live in illusion and the appearance of things. There is a reality. We are that reality. When you understand this, you see that you are nothing, and being nothing, you are everything. That is all."
- Kalu Ripoche -
Qasidah Burdah.
The Poem of the Cloak, is arguably the most memorised and recited poem in the Muslim world. It was written seven centuries ago by a man who wanted to write one final poem among his many poems already written to the person he loved but had never seen; to the person he always cherished to meet but hadn't been unable to do so; the person he had always thought about and felt so distant from.
Suffering from paralysis the destitute poet Sharafuddin Muhammad Al-Busiri penned a poem written from the innermost depths of his yearning heart and it was on that fateful night thereafter when he fell asleep. The person he so loved and yearned to meet embraced him in his dream moving his noble hand across his face, and placed his cloak upon him as an acceptance of his love that forms the spirit of the Burdah poetry. The Burdah poem or the poem of the cloak/mantle is a simple and sheer rendering of spiritual love and praise from one soul to the beloved of beloveds, Muhammad (saws).
And it goes a little something like this...
Suffering from paralysis the destitute poet Sharafuddin Muhammad Al-Busiri penned a poem written from the innermost depths of his yearning heart and it was on that fateful night thereafter when he fell asleep. The person he so loved and yearned to meet embraced him in his dream moving his noble hand across his face, and placed his cloak upon him as an acceptance of his love that forms the spirit of the Burdah poetry. The Burdah poem or the poem of the cloak/mantle is a simple and sheer rendering of spiritual love and praise from one soul to the beloved of beloveds, Muhammad (saws).
And it goes a little something like this...
These are just a few stanza's from the long Poem.What excellence lies in the birth of a prophet adorned with such character!
Beauty itself shines forth from his smiling face!
Exquisite as a lily, illustrious as a full moon,Magnanimous as the ocean, persistent as time.
Due to his majesty, even when alone, He seemed surrounded by military might and cohorts of courtiers.
It is as if precious pearls, locked in their shells,Poured from the treasury of his sweet mouth and smile.
As if, face to face with the sun,Minds were forced to blink at the mere sight of him.
No perfume is as sweet as the ground that holds his bones –What Paradise awaits the one who breathes its scent or brushes lips against its soil!
In the beginning...
It's better to light a candle than to curse the dark
In the eyes of the youth there are question marks
Like freedom
Freedom for the mind and soul
We don't see them
See them for their worth at all
That's why we lead them
Lead them to these wars and what is it we feed them
Feed them our impurities and who it is we treat them
Treat them like the enemy humanity will need them
Need them like the blood we spill and where freedom
In the eyes of the youth there are question marks
Like freedom
Freedom for the mind and soul
We don't see them
See them for their worth at all
That's why we lead them
Lead them to these wars and what is it we feed them
Feed them our impurities and who it is we treat them
Treat them like the enemy humanity will need them
Need them like the blood we spill and where freedom
But...
That was in the beginning...And things change!
- K'Naan -
Desert Flower
Waris Dirie's story is one of remarkable courage.
The "Desert Flower" started life as one of 12 children of a Somali nomad family, a people with no written culture, where the basic unit of currency is the camel. Faced at 12 with the prospect of marriage to a 60-year-old man she didn't know, she broke all the rules and ran away, surviving a traumatic trek across the desert to end up in London, as a maid to the Somalian Ambassador. It was in McDonalds that her striking beauty was "discovered", leading to a career in modelling and another as an ardent campaigner against female genital mutilation (circumcision).
As a novel it would be unbelievable, as Waris survives circumcision, rape, arranged marriage, a lion attack--you name it, she's lived through it. But the book is remarkable less for its deliberately dramatic set pieces, and more for its haunting evocation of the little-told life of Somalian nomads, seen from a child's telling perspective, where life centres on the beloved camels, the horrors of womanhood are still an exciting mystery, and the nights are filled with the smell of frankincense. Desert Flower is a recollection of such gentle beauty that "rags to riches" seems hardly appropriate.
Now brought to the silver screen...
The "Desert Flower" started life as one of 12 children of a Somali nomad family, a people with no written culture, where the basic unit of currency is the camel. Faced at 12 with the prospect of marriage to a 60-year-old man she didn't know, she broke all the rules and ran away, surviving a traumatic trek across the desert to end up in London, as a maid to the Somalian Ambassador. It was in McDonalds that her striking beauty was "discovered", leading to a career in modelling and another as an ardent campaigner against female genital mutilation (circumcision).
As a novel it would be unbelievable, as Waris survives circumcision, rape, arranged marriage, a lion attack--you name it, she's lived through it. But the book is remarkable less for its deliberately dramatic set pieces, and more for its haunting evocation of the little-told life of Somalian nomads, seen from a child's telling perspective, where life centres on the beloved camels, the horrors of womanhood are still an exciting mystery, and the nights are filled with the smell of frankincense. Desert Flower is a recollection of such gentle beauty that "rags to riches" seems hardly appropriate.
Now brought to the silver screen...
Directed by Sherry Horman. Starring Liya Kebede as Waris Dirie. Looks HELLA Good!
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