An interesting response to the Christchurch Terrorist

Quite the opposite has occurred you imbecile. Your idiotic wishes have failed, perhaps you’ve given hope to one or two lone sharks, but I guarantee you, you’ve most likely made thousands more take a long hard look at themselves and assess if this utter senseless murder is actually what they aspire to.

But still, you’ve given our brothers and sisters who passed at your merciless hands the highest of statutes, granted them ranks beyond your comprehension, weep as your goals have gone unfulfilled and no one will know you for anything more than being excrement, which served to spring forth more beauty than your ravaged soul could ever imagine.

Below is not mine…

Beautifully written by a Chinese revert. (It is written to the killer who attacked Muslims in NZ)

(I) Appreciate that you made the effort to find out the timing of our noon prayer.

Appreciate that you learnt more about our religion to know that Fridays are the days the men go to the Mosques for their congregational prayers.

But I guess there were some things you, rather unfortunately, didn’t get to learn.

Perhaps you didn’t know that what you did made them Martyrs.

And how you have single-handedly raised the statuses of our brothers and sisters in the eyes of their beloved Creator with your actions. And how, through your actions, they will be raised as the most righteous and pious of Muslims.

Perhaps you didn’t know that doing what you did, at the time and place you chose, it actually meant that the last words that escaped their lips were probably words of remembrance and praise of Allah. Which is a noble end many Muslims could only dream of.

And perhaps you didn’t know, but what you did would almost guarantee them paradise.

Appreciate that you showed the world how Muslims welcome, with open arms, even people like yourself into our Mosques, which is our second home.

Appreciate you for showing that our mosques have no locks or gates, and are unguarded because everyone and anyone is welcome to be with us.

Appreciate you for allowing the world to see the powerful image of a man you injured, lying on back on the stretcher with his index finger raised high, as a declaration of his faith and complete trust in Allah.

Appreciate how you brought the Churches and communities together to stand with us Muslims.

Appreciate that you made countless New Zealanders come out of their homes to visit the mosques nearest to them with flowers with beautiful messages of peace and love.

You have broken many many hearts and you have made the world weep. You have left a huge void.

But what you also have done have brought us closer together. And it has strengthened our faith and resolve.

In the coming weeks, more people will turn up in the Mosques, a place you hate so much, fortified by the strength in their faith, and inspired by their fallen brothers and sisters.

In the coming weeks, more non Muslims will turn up at the gates of mosques with fresh flowers and beautifully handwritten notes. They may not have known where the mosques in their area was. But now, they do. All because of you.

You may have achieved your aim of intended destruction, but I guess you failed to incite hatred, fear and despair in all of us.

And while I understand that it may have been your objective, I hate to say that after all of that elaborate planning, and the perverse and wretched efforts on your part, you still failed to drive a divide among the the Muslims and non-Muslims in the world.

For that, I can’t say that I’m sorry.
(A Radiant Muslim)

How do I feel about Christchurch?

How do I feel about Christchurch?


I’ve been asked how I feel about the Christchurch massacre. What I gather instead is that I have been asked to feel. That’s not the same. What that really means and then breaks down to is; we want you to feel, even yet again and more precisely; you are being forced to feel.

I don’t take lightly to being forced. I reject any form of it.
I won’t let people or events sway me one way or another.

Call me cold, but I digress to calling it numbness.

I believe people who are swayed so easily by media are in proper reaction mode, and when I say proper, I am not complementing them. They’re proper according to the swayings of what media wants them to feel.

What’s disturbing is people don’t realise it’s yet another sign of the hour coming nearer….

And yet we’re not scared of that.

We’re mortified by an event but aren’t mortified by our insides and what state we’re going to die in at any given moment.

Look at the first person who died.

His last words were ‘salam brother’, he’ll be resurrected in that state.

What is my state? People are asking each other about it , asking how they feel and I don’t feel a thing.

I’m intoxicated in my disgusting state and occupied in it’s disaster. I have my own massacre inside, I have my own atrocities and they’re on a perpetual replay reel. They never stop, I never get to hear the flickering of film at the end of my movie, it’s on constant replay and I am drowning in that. I can’t surface to catch a breath let alone look at the shore or the scenery.

I’m momentarily torn, mainly angry, I cry a tear for but a brief second of recognition, not because these men and women and children lost their lives, but because I’ve still got mine and I’m a walking disaster whilst they were honoured by their Lord to be taken in a worshipping state.

How will I go? Backbiting? Thinking ill thoughts? Hating, angry, lying?

I’m gathering and walking through these states and don’t know if I’ll be taken in one of them. That’s what scares me and should everyone else.

How does anyone know when they will flip the switch, have the devil take them by the hand to commit any of the above mentioned heinous crimes against ourselves? Because ultimately, that’s what the shooter did, he ignored his insides for so long until they took over.

If each of us stopped to fix five of these ugly internal vices a year, just five, then we’d not be having these conversations, feeling these misplaced feelings, have a lot more honour and respect in dealing with each other and truly love one another more.

That’s why I don’t feel, I don’t hashtag or cry for anyone.

I’m too busy, self absorbed in my own sins to hold anyone hostage for theirs.

Wesam El dahabi

-i’m Arab, nine


-i’m Arab, nine

They want the exotic of you,
not the reality of you,
they fancy all things,
media propped into their minds.

If they could,
they would take only the sound of the ney,
on a sandstorm backdrop,
palm trees rustling,
harems filled with boy servants,
and jewellery on plates.

But they don’t want your stubborn skin,
your eyes so dark,
because they carry the weight,
of what your ancestors have seen,
even if your eyes are sky blue,
emerald green,
or almond brown.

They don’t want your bulging discs,
because your backs are so heavy,
with the weight of the world wanting,
the black sludge under the ground,
your peoples blood is being used to paint the canvases of war.

Their addiction to the canvas,
to our paint, to the sludge.

They can’t survive,
it’s their drip feed,
it’s our curse.

Keep your callused hands they say,
because we have no use for the soil you tended to for generations.

Were gonna’ turn it over,
and build pipelines through your hearts,
and then when you turn your backs on your homes,
we’ll have the audacity to call you savages,
homeless, barbaric, refugees ……
But we’ll still want your exotic.

We’ll holiday in Dubai,
hashtag ‘exotic’ all day,
drape our heads with your veils,
to show how accommodating we are to customs,
and when we get back home,
turn on the news and revolt at seeing a woman in a veil.

Just last week, it was exotic,
and now it makes you neurotic.

I’m exotic when they want me to be.

English tongue,
Arab heart,
Olive skin that sizzles a copper brown,
reminisce of the Moroccan pots you hang,
I’m Under your southern sun,
but still….
it’s that Muslim soul…
whatever are we going to do about that thing.

We can’t have him using our language,
to spread love like fire rings,
that’s not part of the narrative,
that the media sings,
that’s not what we can slot,
into the category of terrorising,
speaking  of terror rising,
when were you thinking,
of giving back the land,
and stopping all the Aboriginal killing?

I’m exotic when they want me to be.

When the words sink deep into their souls,
and make them wonder,
just how the fuck I can write what they’re thinking,
what they hid from everyone.

He’s just be a gypsy magician,
he must have access to a realm we don’t.
For  the most part, I do,
it’s my father’s blood, and his father’s blood,
it’s my mother’s womb, and her mothers womb.

I’m exotic when they want me to be,
but for the most part I’m Arab,
because I was made a refugee from Australia the minute I was born here.


Read whilst listening to this.

the invitation


lovers don’t need to wait
for window panes of light

every direction they look,
they see a portal
a tunnel
a path

He calls
through dust settling on your skin
pain churning within
repentance from sin
even in taverns’ bottomless goblets of gin

whatever your predicament
the only prerequisite
is you answer with a lovers heart
for the relationship to begin


I found myself caught between concentration and being lost. A midday call to break from the cycle of chores, in the midst of city suburbia, a hidden sanctuary, a place of high walls which beg the lover to climb over.
What’s inside, what calls with such furore? Why is this street so tranquil?
There beyond the steel doors is a magnetic field, we’re moths to light as soon as the door flings open.
Temperaments change, nothing remains but a wish to serve, to submit, to offer all your vulnerabilities to the altar and say ‘here, my Lord, do with them as you please, I’m yours for manipulation the way you see fit, have mercy, I love thee.’ And how else can He answer except to one up you. Do you think you’re more merciful than Him?
Nay, back into your heart like a frisbee thrown with comet light, tranquillity settles and you know you’ve been answered, perhaps pardoned.
Suddenly the winter noon warms the carpet where you dropped to your face in begging.
My Lord, I am undeserving and You are ever Generous, Subtle, Loving.
And you wonder why men are mad with love, and women remain celibate? How can anyone replace this engagement?
Yesterday’s midday prayer at one of my favourite spots which I have only discovered 4 weeks ago.
No filter…. Just light which burns into the soul .



it can be nothing else if He blew life into Adam

This is the month of return,
the month awash with sins,
floating away in the stream of regret,
turned to foam, turned to mist, turned to nothing.

He has set aside this tumble dry of you, for you.
He awaits with gates flung open,
by the breath of His eminent Being,
a perfumed breath,
of compassion.

He has set for us a bath house,
to ablute outwardly,
more importantly, breathe Him inwardly,
but He cannot dwell in a soiled cavity,
so He asks of us this simple depravity,
leave food, leave water, leave vileness,
for Me.

A month long journey to Him,
reconnecting with the utter-ness of nothing,
so like He blew,
into Adam his breath,
He can blow into you.

God is a jealous God,
He wants to bring you closer to Him,
and there you are pretentious,
vain, arrogant,
an ever dependent earthling,
incessant ego prattling,
go make yourself then,
if you are indeed something.

Oh ingrate, oh hypocrite,
yes I am talking to you, to me,
the writer of this ode of misery,
vile and wretched you live your entirety,
come for one day and be pulled to His gravity,
it’s not ever down, but always and ever upwardly.

In your abasement of carnal fetishes, find your hollow,
create the space, and remove your sorrow,
and find the root of you,
by cleansing with blunt bristles if you have to,
and follow inwards, and swallow,
the bitterness that is admitting,
that you’re merely something borrowed.

One month of your life,
for a lifetime for Him.
And you wonder why the breath of the fasting is like musk,
What else would it be if naught else but God is within?

Ramadan Mubarak to all the Muslims around the world. May this month replace your breath with His divine perfume.




I saw hesitation in his eyes
Rock in hand I felt the pain of what underlies

He cocked the gun, click clack, magazine racked
I felt the warmth trickle down his leg, front and back

Finger primed, centre aligned contract signed I know, you don’t own your mind
I envy you, facing death free as a dove, martyred indeed, return to divine

Kaboom, 13 years of life flash, all of it is nothing but tatters
Bullet splatter, skull shatter, brain matter, served on pavements platter

You didn’t have to, you had a choice, but you still don’t understand
You’re right, I don’t get it, you’re dead, but you’re smiling and the rock is still in your hand.


Tribute to Palestinian children who lost their lives
Tribute to Israeli soldiers who don’t own their lives


I don’t know what goes through a child’s mind faced with such circumstances. I don’t know what goes through a soldiers mind trained to deal with those circumstances.

At what point did a child mature and decide he had to take up any means necessary and fight?
At what point does a soldier lose their humanity and step over their conscience   conveniently like it was a puddle of water?
Does the child look down the barrel in empathy?
Does the soldier look down the barrel in confusion?
I’ve read so many stories about soldiers regretting their servitude to their country’s defence force. We know the massive psychological damage of PTSD.
So what drives people to still enlist?
What drives children to lift a rock?

Something is very wrong at both ends of the spectrum.
What if we could take that split second above, where all those thoughts ran through both parties heads and expand on it. What if we could open dialogue, over a table full of food, Arab-Israeli delicacies, laughter, anger, passion all in the air, but the food too good to let anything but our bellies be the host that directs civility.

What if I could look at my brother from another mother, and hand feed him a morsel?

What if she could look at my sister from the same mister and wipe the cream from her lip for her with her own handkerchief?

That’s the crux of it there, Muslims and Jews from the same Father Abraham, Ishmael and Isaac with different mothers but the same father.

They say no one can hurt you more than your family, because they know your vulnerabilities all too well.
That’s true, but no one can love you or heal you like family too. Sounds like this is just a domestic dispute to me, albeit an ugly one.

Extremism has no religion.


If ever there was an example made that extremists are ugly no matter what hideous corner of belief they espouse, it has been in the viral story of fourteen year old Ahmed, singled out as an extremist and being far from it, ironically by real extremists, that is his school teacher, principal and the police force which mistreated him at the school.
You don’t have to blow up a building or slaughter innocents to be labelled an extremist, you can be so defunct and devoid of soul and character, utterly lacking in wisdom and sound judgement and be fuelled by ignorance but more predominantly your arrogance and reluctance to see any other view but your own, and that would make you far worse an extremist in my opinion.