My Brothers



Robust shoulders,
Stubborn hair,
Olive skin,
Moustaches at thirteen,
And temperaments.

Fuses so short, you’d mistake them for explosives,
Hearts so big, ready to forgive.With one hand drenched in Bvlgari diamonds,
The other hand in the same bowl of laban on the family floor spread.My brothers, they call you brutes, and savages, and they don’t know your fists will be the first to drop a thief in the streets.They don’t know ‘yes mama’ with your neck bowed is so easy a response for you,

When mum’s gone all cuckoo.

They have named your beards ten years ago,
A harbour of envy, as you can now see through the hipster show.

Thousands of Semitic years of blood, we’ve hosted everyone, our homes are open, our tables are spread,
But they want to paint us all like we’re violence born and bred.

How? When we’d call a female stranger a day older than us, ‘taunt’,
Any older man, ‘amou’,

3ala rasi khayi,
esra3a bi da’ni habibi, rouhi, 3ayni, albi, khayi, Ibn Al 3aam,Words of utter-ness we soften each other with.Sali 3ala El nabi,
Send salutations to the Prophet,
Would settle hell fire.Words,
That’s all we need and we’re softened,
Words, you’re well aware can steer us.

So you, oh society, chooses them well don’t you?

‘Arab’… Said with contempt,
‘Moslem’ said with insult,
‘Terrorist’, paint the womb too, so when he’s born,
He knows no other language of who he is.

‘Middle Eastern origin’, not a geographic location,
But a cowards denigration.

My brothers,  words are what they use against you,
The same words you now use against yourselves.

Slay them with their own weapons.
We gave the world poetry they hadn’t heard,
A book 1450 years still unmatched.
Jurisprudence, a legal system they stole everything from,
And a revival of sciences unseen.

Let them have their weapons and technology,
Arm yourselves with the swords of humanity, words.

Sharpen them like blacksmiths of the soul,
Sharpen your minds, sharpen your tongues,
Sharpen your pencils, sharpen your wit,
Learn the writ,
Learn the spit,
The lit-er-ary arts are where our ancestors sit,
They anticipate us with itchy souls,
‘Did we die in vain?’ They ask from graves that quake!

‘All our literature, poetry, and art, we left for you road maps to the innermost core of the innermost core, secrets that men dare not speak, love that has no words to describe it with, and you engage in the mundaneness of warfare, of trivial worldly pursuits? Get busy with the soul of social fabric, the spoken word, the method God chose to communicate with every single one of his Prophets.’

The word is where it’s at, always will be,
Artistry, tapestry, amicability of humanity.


Glossary in order of appearance:
Laban: yoghurt
Taunt: Aunti
Amou: Uncle
3ala rasi khayi: Literal translation, On my head, brother, meaning, I will belittle myself to honour you.
esra3a bi da’ni habibi: Literaral translation, Bury it in my chin oh loved one, meaning If I mean anything to you, let it be a by gone by honouring me.
Rouhi: My soul
3ayni: My eyes
Albi: My heart
Khayi: My brother
Ibn Al 3aam: Literaral translation, the son of my uncle, meaning of blood and closeness to me

I’m tired of the lies, the blatant lies spread about me, my brethren and my heritage. To paint an ancient and civilised foundation of society with such utter falsity, is nothing short of criminal and yet, it goes on unchallenged, even by my own people.

Nobility of Bedouins.


As he argued and debated on, he was met with an unfamiliar silence from his opponent. Never before was he defeated so gracefully.
“Cat got your tongue?” he yelled across the dinner table. Shamed and red-faced guests turned their gaze towards the insulted.

He was there, invited, as a formality of hospitality, the dignified thing families of prestige do when a marriage proposal walks through the door. The young man was unknown, of no formal royalty or family of status. The polite way of refusal was to invite them to a first and final dinner where the suitor would be ridiculed intellectually and demoralised spiritually as he would be met by a fury of wit and cruelty lashed in literary prowess.

After being met with a onslaught of words, poetry and prose, wity belittlement, his head lifted from the bowed neck position he maintained, a sign of his impeccable nomad training, training of the ancient Arabs that was all but forgotten as the city he resided in was modernised with the attire, technology and culture of the British invaders, poised as businessmen trying to advance a backward nation. He smiled sincerely, affectionately as if he read right through the pain of the father, his fears of letting his precious first child and only daughter go to someone unknown,  someone unlike him, unlike his friends, a dust faced nomad.

His gaze pierced right into the heart of her father as he quietly said, ‘Uncle, I am no match for your intellect and charm, I am but a desert nomad, enshrined in the cloak of our people of past, clinging tightly to our heritage in hope to pass it on to our sons untainted. I have fought battles for you and our people and my guard is lowered before you, I dare not rise to your elucidation, and impeccable speech.

Forgive me, your generosity and hospitality is unsurpassed but I have overstayed my welcome and must leave.’

The father grinning from ear to ear rose and loudly proclaimed ‘Nonsense! You will do no such thing and my daughter will marry no other man, come and sit nearby me oh eloquent of tongue and noble of lineage. If Arabs have any dignity left it will only survive with men like you, men whom I wish all the daughters of men like me to find and wed. Our people will only be given back their honour through the likes of you. Come, near me you will sit.’

End part 1