Breaking My Heart [Iraq Edition]

"Beyond the obvious effects of destruction gripping Baghdad he found people filled with a yearning to reclaim the true spirit of Iraq. He found that art, unlike violence, is a way of asking questions about what has happened and what might still be to come for the country. “The greatest sadness is that a generation of Iraqis has been raised on violence. Hate and aggression is their language, the only form of expression they know. They have been denied their own cultural heritage and the cultural heritage of the world. And that has to change. A country needs its culture to heal.” Despite the language of violence, the desire of many young Iraqis to purge their pain by taking pride in their culture is growing." 

 [The Poet of Baghdad]

 

 

 The cover

I remember when I had first heard about the political upheaval going on in this country. I wondered, "Why can't these people just be thankful that they have been saved from dictatorship and be nice to each other? Why can't they help each other build this broken country up?" 

I was ignorantly stupid, judging people based on my own upbringing. I couldn't imagine a place where people weren't getting along.

But look at Jamaica. We've never had a dictator of our own making [the British colonized us, so you could say we had a dictatorship], but we still have dishonesty, greed, and the like. We have people shooting each other over such insignificant things. You'd think I would understand. But I didn't. 

I know that my country doesn't have the same history as Iraq. We've never had the U.S. army come in and bomb everything to find someone like Suddam Hussein. We've never had people who are still loyal to a dead man and his crazy, devilish ideals going around shooting innocent people. 

Even now, after reading of all the horrible things going on Iraq, this book was an eye opener. Here is a man who couldn't visit his country for twenty-four years because he refused to stop writing poetry of what he saw and felt, because he refused to stop proclaiming that Iraq needed to be free of all its tyrannical violence. 

Everyone knows Suddam Hussein was a bad man. He killed and stole for his own benefit. He tried to destroy the morality and the hope of those who opposed him. But, sometimes, we don't really connect with the statistics of all the people who have had to pay for standing up for freedom. Nabeel's mother, who bore seven children, had to suffer seeing some of them leaving without ever seeing them again. She suffered from them being arrested numerous times, being tortured, having to go into hiding and exile because they refused to bow to the devil. Near the end of her life, she was sick, but because the government wouldn't let doctors have medical supplies, she died in pain. Can you imagine a child's pain knowing that your mother is in pain, and something can be done about it? Knowing that if you just side with the devil, you can get these supplies? It must have been heartbreaking!

In many countries, we think nothing of our right to free speech. We get offended over the slightest inclination that we need to shut our mouths. In fact, people prefer when you're opinionated. Not in Iraq, honey. That shit'll get you killed.

I completely recommend this book. I'm sure every book I read is recommendable, but this one is more so. Iraq is suffering, and this book can help you understand what some people had to go through. I'd even be willing to lend you my copy.

Nabeel Yasin having tea with a bookseller. [2008]

T. S. Eliot: The Start

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

[T. S. ELIOT, The Love Song of Alfred Profruck]

 I am a huge fan of T. S. Eliot. And yet, I only own two copies of his work; one, a collection of poems about cats [a creature I cannot even stand] and a book of criticism. This is considerably sad, because I love Eliot. A great deal.

I've been wanting to actually own a copy of all his poems, to pull out whenever I need to to satisfy my recurring cravings for him. I found a book at Powell's for $13, which is very cheap, considering that it's everything he's ever written. However, it's too big for me to carry, and at the time, I couldn't afford it. So, I have decided to write all of his poems into a notebook. Or several, judging by the size of my handwriting. I'm actually very excited for this, though I know it'll take a while. I started writing tonight, and the first poem I chose was "The Love Song of Alfred Profruck", which is one of his first and most popular ones.

Eliot is simple in how he writes, but at the same time, he's very descriptive. While copying down the quote above, I had to stop and think: What footprint am I leaving in my time here on earth? Is my life really worth it? All the books I read, the games I play, the conversations I have, can quickly be forgotten in a second. Every choice I make may not have a lasting impact on the future. Why try when life can be forgotten in an instant? Yes, the life I lead has its consequences in Heaven, but will people's lives be changed? It's got that whole Christian concept to it. I mean, we're told that we're but aliens, and our real homes are in Heaven. But who doesn't like to think that somewhere, someone will remember us with affection and tell people, "That person was a good soul." It's not a humble thing to think, but I know I want to be remembered. Fondly, of course.

Hmmm... I'm no good at this analytical thing, as you can tell. My thoughts tend to get all jumbled together, and I jump from here to there without warning. I think I'll go and sleep on it.

There is no vocabulary for love within a family... [T. S. ELIOT]

I have begun to have this unhealthy fascination with Arabic culture. It's been slowly cultivating within my soul for the past three and a half years, carefully gathering up the strength to consume my every being. Every decision that I make has me living in the Middle East as its end goal. Every dream, every hope, every thought I mull over in my mind and heart leads to the gate of this dazzling culture. Some people love Paris, some people love London. Some people even love the very place at which they lay their heads to rest at night.

Me, I love Ramallah. I love Jeddah, Mecca, and Abu Dhabi. I love Beirut, Matai, Baghdad, Tehran, and Kabul. I want to go to all these places, touch and smell the spaces that make up these cities. They are my escape. There were moments when I found myself choosing to eat pita and hummus over hamburgers, even when I was craving meat. My subconscious was taking over even my stomach.

There really is no reason for this cult-like adoration. I had a small part in a play that dealt with the situation in Palestine, and love's ambassador took this as a sign to come bitch-slapped me in the face. Thanks.

I'm sorry. There's a reason behind this.

You see, I'm reading THE POET OF BAGHDAD. It's a biography of Nabeel Yasin, a famous Iraqi poet. He was blacklisted by Saddam Hussein for poems he had written, and he barely escaped the country with his life. I'm only eighty-eight pages into it, but I am completely in love with the story. I can almost see myself living in Baghdad, living among these people. These people, who know nothing more than the tyrannical hate that human beings are willing to impose on those who speak out against them.

At one point, Nabeel's mother takes him on a pilgrimage to the shrine of Sayyed Muhammad, something that she does religiously [pun most definitely intended]. While there, Nabeel disrespects an old man for not following the scribes as they are written. She tells him, "Whatever you may think of the world, little Nabeel, you cannot spend your life at odds with it. And before you do, ask yourself if the result is worth it." So true, Nabeel's mother, so true.

Mothers know how to bitch-slap, too, even if it's just with their words. Which is funny, because later, she tells her son, "The wounds we make with words are greater than those made with swords. Remember that."

This just brings up a whole storm of memories of my own family. I love them, and yet, I can't stand them. Every human being has this kind of feeling, with different varieties. Which makes me wonder if the need I have to go to the Middle East is more for myself, or if it's something God is calling me to. I love my family, I do. But this...feeling... of discontent of where I am has nothing to do with them and all to do with me. It's like gazing at pictures or reading stories of these people's struggles is an elixir to my own troubles.

I mean, we are just one huge family, humanity. We all breath the same air, live on the same earth. I just want to live on the patch of earth over there, breath that particular space of air.

This is something that I continously struggle with. Any person who has placed hopes in the future knows this sensation and understands. It's a human quality, after all.

Ghaa! So many thoughts along this vein are kicking and screaming in my head. This is the only part I was able to clamp upon.