i’m Arab, ten

i’m Arab, ten
Spray that at me with venom all you like,
Do you realise my ancestors are prophets?
Whatever lashes off your breath with vengeance,
 lands on my skin with silken embrace.
Wesam El dahabi

It utterly baffles me when white supremacists herald themselves as civilised,
as the benchmark for humans to rise to, in the name of Jesus, in the name of Moses, in the name of whatever religious figure they suppose and they forget,
Jesus, Moses, Muhammad, Abraham, Jacob, Soloman, Joseph, and every prophet that ever lived was of African to Middle Eastern decent.

Enough with your amnesia, enough with your cognitive dissonance and dissociation with reality.

I have firm conviction that people who think this way have serious cognitive abilities, bordering on mental health issues. Their spiritual states are a given, there is nothing Jesus like nor holy about them.

But to throw an insult at me like ‘hey Arab’, is the most laughable. You do realise the word Arab only exists in a negative framework in a mind that has been utterly shaped by empty media rhetoric, void of any meaningful and rightful association to negativity.  Calling me an Arab with intent to insults only affirms my conviction and love of my heritage.

Structural racism, selective amnesia, hate, prejudice and bigotry are not diseases and states that can be cured overnight, or ever, if someone is comfortable bathing in lies and misinformation.

In the words of a George Galloway in a recent debate, ‘The Iraqi’s were teaching the world Algebra when you (English) were sitting in forests painting your faces blue’.

If you’re that stupid and gullible to fall for media jargon, then it’s high time you wake up and realise the true worth of civilisations far more ancient than your infantile colonialist forefathers and their successors to present time will have you believe.



does it break your back

that I carry ancestors on mine?


why does culture bother you my friend?
is it because the sun does not touch your facethat you must deny everyone Gods grace?
perhaps because winds don’t cool your temperament
no one else feels gusts – you assume

the past time of tea
is not enough to quench your soul
the ceremony
that can otherwise make Japanese whole

you perplex me why my ancestry
something that belongs to me
can be the source of your misery

gnash teeth, brace your heart
point your spear
worse than a witches hunt

where is he,
beard, melanin full, accent thick,
eyes of war

where is she
only twerk worthy, ebony fantasy, she’s too veiled from me
let me liberate her with my placid inability

this is not your country
colour person, white as snow or dark as night
now we’re given the green light
to hate you with everything we got
to haplessly fight

rats out of the dark
scurrying to eat stale crumbs
you haven’t risen
still in the dark ages
still in the slums

the history of England will never change
a world of colonisation,
the only people left to burden with white globilisation
are the ones who are your blindest followers
who have taken well to immunisation
thinking they’re free under the banner of imperial sterilisation
little do they know,
they’re the most shackled of nations.

i still don’t understand
why someone’s culture,
preference in general,
could stifle  you
and make you such a burden on yourself
all that dead weight you carry
can’t be good for your health



Ironic that a country that has not left a stone unturned,
to steal even the grain of sand from underneath it,
who’s monarchy cannot ever be satiated,
ever on a diet of spoils of war,
is now left with one more country to devour….


You stole poetry, that’s not yours
art, that’s not yours
medicine, that’s not yours,
resources, that’s not yours
oil, that’s not yours
land, that’s not yours
minerals, that’s not yours
science, that’s not yours
history, that’s not yours
religion, that’s not yours
And now that the owners of all those things are in your country living,
Ironically not asking to collect what’s theirs,
You claim,
this country….

it’s not yours

Fuck off to your dark ages, with your white supremacy,
Hell, you never left.

Mourning pain, Morning pangs – definitions of one man.

mourning pain

It feels like,
Creaking bones,
Companions you’ve been greeted by every morning,
The mourning you feel when  they’re not there.
Familiarity is destructive when it makes you an addict,
Addicted to pain.
I induced pain so I can learn the art of healing,
So in mending myself, I can mend you.
Here I am,
A monument of war,
Eat your fill, heal yourself.

I thought I was content being alone,
I thought I was indifferent to societies prodding,
Poking at people, I made myself not one of those people,
A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Twenty five years of battering my body because I didn’t want to batter others,
Each punch thrown, each kick landed, I smiled and shrugged it off.
‘If that’s all you got mother fuckers, keep it coming’,
Like a diesel engine I’m gonna’ get better the hotter I get,
Keep it coming…. You’ll wear out long before I’m out.
Look at me….. Here I am, all these scars, a pool of misery, tales and stories,
And yet I smile, invite more.
Look at what you’ve done, undone,
Unstitched all my stitches,
Here I am, thinking I wore them as a mark of my history,
My war stories.
War horses are ever so elegant I thought,
But we can’t trot,  we are ashamed to, lest our gait is scrutinised.

Here I am, all these scars, a pool of aches as soon as the weather changes,
Torn ligaments, scar tissue,
Calcified joints, callused knuckles, cellulitis shins,
A metaphor for unrepairable synapses come haunting back to remind me of my frailty,
Big burly Arab – wannabe white blonde, blue eyed,
Wannabe exotic  Latino sensual,
Wannabe poised Asian Zen master,
Wannabe severed, madman nomad,
Wannabe Rumi’s tears,
Wannabe anything but all this fear,
Confused for a brute, a savage, a something, a label.

So here I sit… Forced solitude,
Pretending this is high monasticism,
Pretending to be an artist of introversion,
Maybe I took one beating too many.
The bravery in me I fought so hard to refine,
Carve and chisel, make it my badge,
Now  undone,
Because you pointed out how little I know.

My bravery is only a reflex in fight or flight situations,
Always dukes up ready to fight.
I hate that you pointed that out how little I know about myself,
Despite being myself,
Myself is there selves, everyone else, not me,
But society,
My brethren,
I don’t hate the image of them,
I hate the image of me,
An imaginary bludgeoned figment of solitary confinement,
But un-free, fake non-conformity.

I hate that I’m only allowed to speak about me and my descendants,
Because all men,
They’re all my brethren,
The labels of ‘middle-eastern descent’,
That convenient description to separate us from other men,
White Anglo Saxon,
Caucasian, African,
African American, Indian, Asian,
All men, slotted conveniently into,
Palatables, mandibles, edibles, digestible,
Swallow that then,
If that’s your definition of men,
If that’s what will make you heal again, see us again.


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.


Moderate Muslim?


I cringe every time the ‘moderate’  label is applied to me.  I understand it is probably meant to be a compliment, but the truth is that it is offensive in the way it would be to be called a ‘moderate intellect’. It carries the connotation that one’s faith is somehow diluted. It implies,  condescendingly, that it is socially acceptable to be a Muslim, as long as you are not too Muslim.

– Waleed Aly,  People like us.

I agree.

Some people get it. Great talk

My sister from another Mr.

Elucidation on point! No need to fancy it up, this girl gets it!

Language, presentation and model example, perfect.

If you’re honest, she’ll make you peel your skin.

from here: http://www.ted.com/talks/yassmin_abdel_magied_what_does_my_headscarf_mean_to_you#t-833690