ihath

Adventures of Frakash .... Page 4

2009-11-21T10:57:00.000-08:00

That night Frakash managed to sneak himself into Laila’s backpack, the same backpack that he saw her carry to work for years. His plan was simple, to sneak himself into the office of the smart and doughnut happy and later jump out of the backpack and try to mingle with the people pretending he was one of them. After all, he had spent years observing the way Laila talked and behaved. With a bit of ingenuity and cunning he was sure to blend in. “Nobody will suspect that I am just a garden gnome”, he told himself.

The next morning, everything went according to plan. As Laila walked past the large glass front door, Frakash was riveted with a mixture of emotions that he barely could contain. He was amazed at seeing the large glass door. He had seen little shards of glass in the garden, glass windows of a house, but never something so big. It was smooth, pristine and so perfectly flat. The adventure had already started for Frakash and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. His plan worked like clockwork. The absent minded Laila never opened her backpack in the morning and never suspected the stowaway garden refugee on her way to work. He managed to get through the security without a problem. As soon as Laila walked through the large glass door, Frakash jumped out of the backpack and into the front hallway of the office of the smart and doughnut happy. “Wow! I made it, I am here!”, Frakash jumped up and down with excitement. As he looked around his new surroundings, he was awestruck by what he saw. The walls were perfectly white, not a single smudge or speck to be seen. The earth was covered with a plush and fuzzy light blue material, that was so pleasant to touch, Frakash wished he could roll face down in it. It was so delightful; Frakash reasoned he didn’t even need to wear boots. Everything was clean, there was no dirt, no worms and no crawlies. The smart ones sat in perfectly shaped boxes, focused on their work. There was no noise, except for a faint sound of the efficient clicking on the keyboard in the background, which blended together into a buzz. There was no smell either, not of manure, not of dirt, not of anything. Frakash could feel the relief in his sinuses as they smelled nothing for the very first time in their tired existence. “Oh this place is heaven”, Frakash thought to himself as he closed his eyes to soak up the moment. But alas, his moment of rapture came to an abrupt end.

The Adventures of Frakash .... Page 2

2009-11-13T16:36:00.001-08:00

On a beautiful sunny Vancouver day, while resting underneath his favorite shrub, Frakash overheard his mistress named Laila having a conversation with her husband. She was telling him about the evil conspiracy that her coworkers have devised at her place of work in order to sabotage her diet attempts.

“Every few days they bring those free doughnuts, and then when I ignore them they come around and a cast a spell on me” Overheard Frakash Laila complaining

“Come, come have our doughnuts, they are free, they are fresh, they are waiting for you” she continued.

Frakash had served happily in Laila’s garden for 10 years. Sure her kids would poke him sometimes and her husband constantly tried to foolishly compete with his gardening work, but over all serving Laila made for enjoyable times. But as soon as he heard about the free doughnuts he had an irresistible urge to visit Laila’s place of work, a software development company. He tried to convince himself that an adventure would not suit his temperament and that routine and sameness was the foundation rock of his being. Yet all night he dreamt about eating free doughnuts and roaming around between all those smart people that call themselves computer programmers. The next day he tried to push those ideas out of his head, but a flood of yearning has been unleashed and Frakash was possessed by a single passion and that is to join the office of the smart and doughnut happy. It became his goal, his calling, his reason for existence.

The way it is

2009-11-05T18:44:00.001-08:00

Acrylic on canvas

24x18 inches

The Adventures of Frakash .... First Page

2009-10-30T21:45:00.003-07:00

Once upon a time. Not so far away and not so long ago in not so mythical city of Vancouver. There was a garden gnome named Frakash. Frakash was the sort that never worked himself up unnecessarily. Charging defenseless dragons and crossing marshy bogs was not his idea of fun at all. “Take it easy and stay happy” was his motto.“Let the dragons keep their fair maidens... they don’t know what they have just bought into” he told himself on several occasions.

Though small in stature, Frakash was smart and while others worked hard and competed to be bestest or fastest, he knew that few things in life were worth the effort.

The Story of the Fish

2009-10-24T21:51:00.001-07:00

Here is a clip of me reading a short story at the Vancouver International Writers Festival. Open Mic event. I ran out of time and so had to cut the story short. But you can read the full text of the story below.

The story of the Fish

There once was a fish that swam happily in the sea and was as happy as ... well as happy as a fish swimming in the sea could be. One day when the happy fish was swimming near the shore, it heard a wise voice from above say : “A woman needs a husband, like a fish needs a bicycle”. The fish felt riveted by what it heard. “A bicycle! .... A bicycle! ... A bicycle” ... the fish repeated the word in its mind like a chant. “O something that I don’t need” ... thought the happy fish lustfully. “For once to have something that I don’t need, would be something indeed”. And so the fish swam around the sea, feeling slightly less happy than happy can be, singing to herself a tune that can never be: “ I want to ride a bicycle, I want to ride a bicycle, I want to ride a bicycle”. And then one day as if by magic, the less happy than happy can be fish took a wrong turn and felt lost in the big sea. In a panic, the fish twirled around and zigzagged in random shapes, until it found itself in a never before encountered reef. As the sun sent its golden rays down the shallow end, darkness uncovered the way theatre drapes part on an opening night, and there it was, a shining object with two wheels. The fish’s heart skipped two beats and wobbly wobbles went up and down its imaginary knees. “God is indeed great” professed the fish. For it had wished, yearned and asked, but only an empowered creator could have answered back so eloquently. The fish stared at the bicycle in awe and with great trepidation approached it attentively. First the fish had to untangle the weed that entwined itself around the frame and across the wire. Then the fish made sure to place a coloured ring around the wire of the front wheel to mark it as taken. The fish was certain that had any other fish discovered this treasure it would lay its immediate claim. Now that the bicycle was cleaned and marked, it still looked unsatisfied. The fish knew that a bicycle was made for riding and not lying on one side. That is when the fish realized that her imaginary knees and knuckles better materialize. And so the fish swam to the Odd Objects store, where little fishes went to play pranks on their cousins and buy Halloween trappings. Among the soggy shelves it found sand blasting guns and plastic fins. But at the back of the store in the “Dropped from Heaven” department it found what delighted. Prosthetic human limbs, with the necessary knuckles and knees, the fish purchased without asking the price and went home feeling most accomplished. The fish spent all her evening strapping on legs , arms and practicing wobbling motions to bring them alive. After many failed attempts, the fish felt confident. It decided to approach the prized possession in her new disposition. The bicycle seemed mildly impressed with the fish’s hearty attempt. But Alas, all riding trials ended with the fish buried under a pile. The fish now was the most unhappy fish in the sea. It practiced and practiced with wobbly motions of all kind until a precise choreography of torso movements yielded mastery of limbs. The unhappy fish approached the bicycle with a new determination. And lo and behold! A riding experience was in the cards. The fish rode gingerly, around and around in a circle, and then in straight line. All the creatures of the sea, looked upon with amazement. Even the octopus and the shark spared precious moments to notice. The tortoise smiled for the first time in 50 years and the star fish took a vow of non violence. For times, they are changing and the signs were clear as can be. They sensed they had witnessed history. The fish puffed up it chest in victory and rode around every day to applause and adoration. The bicycle seemed pleased, but not all was well in the sea. A few logical fishes doubted the victorious fish and asked annoying logical questions : “Why ride a bicycle when you can swim faster? Why defy nature when god gave us scales and fins? A fish is not a human. Pretending something that you can’t be is a dangerous venture”. But the victorious fish answered them with clever retorts that silenced them: “You dumb doubters don’t you see? This is progress, it is called technology. Today I ride gingerly in a straight line, tomorrow I will zip around like a devil on ecstasy. You old fashioned fish don’t matter; it is us modern fish that hold the future in our nonexistent fingers”. In this state of defiance, the fish knew that it had to perform. In order to ride with required speed, the defiant fish needed to construct an elaborate plan to level paths and roads so that the bicycle could speedily navigate around. Although the doubters have been silenced, the defiant fish was certain that their doubting voices would rise again. As the vigorous training program for bicycle racing began, the astonishing happened. The bicycle spoke. Its first words in the sea where screeching moaning sounds of whining. “eeeemmmmmmmmmm, I do not like to forge ahead with this haste, I do not enjoy being ridden by a fish, I do feel nauseated by the wetness of the salty sea”. The shocked fish was dumb founded. Completely aghast, “Why didn’t you say something sooner, until now I thought you were deaf and mute”. “Oooooooo! I didn’t want too seem excessively fussy”, replied the bicycle. “That bastard!” .... er ... I mean .... “That illegitimate love child of a car and a unicycle!” ... “After everything I have done for him!”.... er .... I mean “After everything I have done for it!” ... The shocked fish began to scream and in complete hysterics picked up the bike with all its might and threw it to the shore. As tears poured down the depressed fish’s cheeks, it took off the fake limbs. Much to its surprise it found that real limbs had began to grow out of its torso and the depressed fish realized that it had forgotten how to swim. The fish sat next to the shore and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. “O! One day when I am finished sobbing, I will teach myself how to swim using these new limbs, who knows perhaps I will invent a novel way of swimming for fish” said the depressed fish to console herself. “And if that doesn’t work, I have heard that they can do wonders with plastic surgery these days” the depressed fish continued. That is when the depressed fish heard the wise voice from above again: “I told you that a woman needs a husband, like fish needs a bicycle. Next time why don’t you poke yourself in the eye instead and save yourself the heartache”. And so the fish started a poke in the eye business, where the young and foolish fishes could ,for a fee, get a poke in the eye using the depressed fish’s new limbs to immunize themselves from heartache. Her business motto was “A fish needs a bicycle like a woman needs a husband”. And the fish lived forever after bitterly.

The way we used to be

2009-10-13T19:22:00.003-07:00

Acrylic on canvas
24x18 inches

Sticky and sweet ... The best is yet to come

2009-09-24T11:23:00.002-07:00

Acrylic on Canvas
16x20 inches

Merry Christmas

2009-09-17T12:21:00.004-07:00

I am like a Christmas tree right now. All my emotions are blinking on and off like Christmas tree lights. I feel everything. I feel sad, angry, bitter, happy, relieved, free. Emotions come over me like waves and then go away only to be struck by the next one. One minute I am crying, next I feel happy and optimistic. “What doesn’t kill us, makes us stronger” goes the saying. I don’t want to get stronger, I am strong already. Only one light is acting unusually. A little yellow light, right under the bottom left corner of my heart, it is always on and doesn’t show any interest in blinking. Even the pixels on my laptop’s screen are acting funny. It has a few dots that blink red when they are supposed to be black. In sympathy with my Christmas tree state, my laptop has decided to follow.

I am not worried about getting through this, I know I will. I don’t care if I get stronger or not, it is all the same to me. I am worried about the type of person I will emerge as. I catch myself being not myself. “This is so not me, this is so so not me” I find myself thinking. Just last week I caught myself watching the movie Sleepless in Seattle. I never watch those pathetic Hollywood romantic comedies. They are stupid and saccharine pieces of puff pastry stuffed with sentimentality. These movies are fluff with no substance. I like serious movies, intelligent movies, hard hitting movies. I enjoy French cinema, world cinema, movies that maintain artistic integrity and I follow directors that practice their trade with the assumption that audience has brains. But for some reason I found myself yearning for corniness of the happy ending and indulging in the banality of not considering the ever after. “This is so not me, this is so so not me”, I kept telling myself. I am really worried about myself, what is next? I will start reading a harlequin novel? ..... Aaaaaah! No! ...... I hope I never catch myself in that stale pit of triteness. My current state of degradation is bad enough. Thank god I don’t own a T.V. set or otherwise I would start following soap operas ... I can’t decide which would be worse.

I am worried about the state of my heart at the end of this. Just last year I was sitting in coffee shop in Jerusalem with my daughter on a touristic visit, we were eating breakfast. A middle aged man sat across from us and without taking a breather began to flatter me with all sorts words of flowery compliments. He even asked me, pointing at my daughter “Is this your sister?” ... Ah! ... whatever. “I wonder what this guy is selling?” I found myself thinking cynically. Well sure enough, 15 minutes later it emerges that the man is a tourist guide and he was offering us his services to take us on tour of the city, for reasonable fee. I thanked him for the offer but assured him that I know my way around the city. As we were leaving my daughter commented “Wow! Mom that man is in love with you”. I was so touched by her naiveté. I tried to explain to her how people use flattery to sell things or services. How flattery is an effective tool with dim-witted people to get what you want out of them. But my daughter, only 13 at the time, insisted that the man was taken by me. Although I am certain that my version of events is the correct one, I felt envy at the fantastic world she lives in, where everybody says only what they truly mean. O I lived in that world for a long long time. Too long really. But the wild tiger of reality came along and prayed on the slow deer of my innocence. I explained my point of view to my daughter but not too forcefully. Later on that same day we went to the old city of Jerusalem with is busy markets and hustle and bustle locals shopping for daily needs. As we walked by, a merchant yelled at me “ I love your scarf!”. I said thank you politely and moved on quickly trying hard not to engage in any further discussion. My daughter looked adoringly at the colourful scarf wrapped around my neck and commented “Wow! Mom that scarf is really beautiful” as if noticing it for the first time, even though she saw me wearing it many times before. Again, I tried to explain to her that the merchants in the old city of Jerusalem are supper aggressive. If they even smell a faint hint of a tourist, they will do anything to engage you in a discussion, after which they muscle you into their store and then try to pressure you to buy silly trinkets for exuberate prices. That the comment on my scarf is nothing but the start of an elaborate sales pitch. “No mom, I think the man really liked your scarf”, was my daughter’s determined response. O ! to be that innocent again. I took off the scarf and unwrapped it from around my neck. I am not in any hurry to wisen her to the ways of this world . “Let her enjoy being foolish for a little longer” I thought to myself as I wrapped it around her neck.

Only a child protected by a loving family can maintain a high state of naiveté, but I am worried that I am going too far in the other direction. Is it possible to have all the knowledge that I have and all the experiences that I had, yet not become a cynic? I used to think that the answer was a resounding yes. But now in my blinking state, I am seriously worried. This is so not me. This is so so not me. Will I still recognize myself at the end of this?

I hope my private Christmas season will not last as long as it does in a north American mall. Rudolf the red rose reindeer, Meg Ryan in yet another tooth aching happy ending, I will go eat a puff pastry and hope the closings credits rolls soon.

Advice for Rep. Joe Wilson

2009-09-10T09:37:00.003-07:00

Next time do the Iraqi thing and throw your shoe at the president. Given the state of the country it is clear that the Iraqi way is not always the best, but it is always more entertaining.

I read in the news that Muntadhar al-Zaidi, the Iraqi journalist who threw his shoe at the then US President George Bush, is being released from prison this week. Perhaps Rep. Joe Wilson can hire him as a consultant to teach him proper Iraqi shoe throwing technique. President Obama would do well to take lessons from former US president on Iraqi shoe ducking. It doesn't matter what you think of the former president, George Bush, you have to acknowledge that his ducking instincts where sharp in the face of the Iraqi shoe.

Sludge

2009-09-04T11:52:00.003-07:00

I feel that I am wading through sludge.

Every day is a fun trip to the sludge entertainment park. I ride the sludge roller coaster, go to sludge splash down park to prepare myself for the heavy duty amusement to follow. Then I take a mat and head to sludge super slide, where I experience a gut-twisting gliding motion right before I drop into a big barrel of sludge. Thanks to modern technology, I get the opportunity to experience vertical circular movements while swinging around the same trajectory. O the thrills of looping around 360 degrees while getting sprayed with sludge fountains that are synchronized to music. After a day full of fun hair-raising rides I suddenly find myself dropped in an endless pool of sludge, which I spend the rest of the day wading through.

Sometimes the sludge changes color which keeps my daily adventures interesting. There has been green sludge, purple sludge both have offered an uplifting change from the standard brown sludge. The best has been the sludge that seemed to be peppered with golden fairy dust. It sparkled all over and made me remember lights at the end of tunnels. But, golden fairy dust sludge is rare. Most of the time I get to wade through industry standard dark brown sludge. Don’t worry! .... the smell is not so bad. In fact, it only bothered me the first couple of days, I am so used to it now, I hardly notice it. To cheer myself up, I wear fancy wading pants. I might as well look good if I am going to be wading through sludge. My favourite are the red wading pants with big white polka dots. Although once I am all covered by sludge nobody can see that I am wearing my fancy red wading pants with white polka dots, wearing them gives me an instant confidence boost, which I am sure improves my attitude about the whole thing. I also like wearing my Body Shapers wading pants. They provide smooth and slick look to my body line, eliminating bulging on the thighs and the tummy control panel provides a firm look. I look like I have lost 10lbs when I put my Body Shaper wading pants in the morning. Too bad that once I am all covered in sludge nobody can tell my body shape any way. But I figure that if I ever manage to wade my way out of the sludge, I want to look slick. My favourite however are the designer wading pants that come with eyelash lace trim and refined butterfly stencil. This delicate yet sturdy creation makes me feel like a princess or a goddess of the olden enchanted days. Back when a damsel in distress could always count on a knight in shining armour to rescue her. But, just in case you live in the post hero modern days, these wading pants are chest height making it hard to wade in too deep. Also they come with an electronic cooling and heating device which I set on auto-regulation setting to guarantee optimum temperature throughout my wading experience. They also have extra seems which allow for more freedom of movement. Although I love my designer wading pants, I have only worn them twice. I find that dry cleaning with the lace trim too high. The dry cleaner mentioned that he never had to clean sludge out of lace and rebuked me for misusing such a delicate creation in a harsh activity. “Hey! They are wading pants. What do you expect me to do in them? Dance the Macarena?” I replied.

I don’t like anything about this sludgorama world. I don’t even like myself in it. Well! At least I haven’t lost my sense of humour. So I guess there one thing I do like. Hopefully I won’t lose it in this sludge bath.

Patience.

I am told I need to learn patience. For there are no short cuts and no efficient ways to get through this.

I have many great qualities and patience is not one of them. I face life’s challenges head on and straight ahead. No nonsense approach is my favourite approach. Just get on with it. I have no time for wallowing in self pity. No patience for bemoaning the unfairness of this world. “Who care? It is what it is and you just need to deal with it. Get on with it. Snap out of it. Do what needs to get done.” I usually tell myself. But standing here, in this endless pool of sludge with no solid shore in sight, none of my usual vices seems to be working. The harder I work the more sludge is generated. My friend tells me that I need to read “The Power of Now by Eckhart Tolle”. I tell her my power of now is “I want it now, right away, all at once”. She laughs at my foolishness and tells me “that is exactly why you need to read the Power of Now”. I am still traumatized after listening to friend’s recommendations to read “The Secret”. I felt my IQ was assaulted exponentially as I read it. I actually feel embarrassed by the fact that I read it. O the stupid things we do when we are desperate. I don’t need to read a book, I just need to use my common sense.

I refuse to learn patience. It is just not me. Patience is not my personality. I hate waiting for stuff, even the bus, even waiting in line at the supermarket. I am determined that this experience will not ruin my essence and teach me patience. I guess I am stubborn that way. Patience is for people who have nothing better to do that wait for stuff. Why wait for stuff when you can just run out and grab it? Yalla, yalla, andele, andele, come on and hurry up and get on with it. I want to snap my fingers to hurry things up. I am standing and fidgeting. Shifting my weight from one foot to the other. I am looking at my watch. I am biting my lower lip. Pulling at my hair. Tapping one foot, the other foot, then tapping my fingers. Are there any other impatient gestures that I can make? I am doing all the impatient stuff that I know how to do. Perhaps I should jump up and down? Maybe I should kick some object? Perhaps there is some secret impatient gesture that I don’t know about.I might try dancing the macarena in my designer wading pants after all.

I feel that I have been wading through this sludge for weeks. But at least I am not drowning in it. I will not learn patience.

Flamenca super powers

2009-08-24T12:21:00.002-07:00

A flamenca must have super powers on stage. Mine are launching missiles from my earlobes and setting things on fire with a special joker stare.

Here is me exercising both super powers while performing at the PNE.

Go ahead! ... Move me

2009-08-11T17:07:00.000-07:00

Acrylic on Canvas
20x16 inches

muy difícil

2009-08-06T11:01:00.003-07:00

I have been studying flamenco for 7 years now. The more I learn the more I realize that I have that much more to learn yet. Flamenco is a never ending adventure in frustrations. Only the very stubborn stick with it.

This year I had taken the bulerias class. "Muy dificil" I frequently heard instructors say in Spain when referring to bulerias. It means "very difficult". Bulerias is a one of the rhythms in flamenco that is both serious yet light at the same time. Bulerias comes from the word to mock, tease or make fun of in Spanish. The whole aesthetic is that of teasing the audience. You pretend that you are falling but then get up, you pretend that you are going in one direction but then go in the other direction, you pretend you are having a fight with somebody and you are telling them off ... etc. It requires a big personality on stage, not just technical ability. In Spain it is not uncommon to see dancers make vulgar gestures while dancing bulerias, the kind of gestures that your mother would ground you and send you to your room if she saw you making. In Spain the audience loves it, extra Ole's are given. Here in Vancouver, I suspect that the audience wouldn't get it.

In my bulerias class this year, each student is supposed to listen to the guitar, listen to the singer and then improvise on the spot in reaction to the music. The teachers watches and gives each student feedback on what was done right and what was done wrong. Flamenco is supposed improvisational and this class tries to teach each student to do just that. Week after week, I went to class and when it was my turn to dance, I couldn't do it. The pressure of listening to guitar, singer and think about which dance move to do, was just too much for me all at one. After many humiliating experiences, I doubted if I will ever get this thing called flamenco and considered seriously quitting. Finally I was able to dance, but now came the feedback of the things I was doing wrong:

Out of compass (dancing out of rythem) the cardinal sin of flamenco. I have been studying flamenco for 7 years, and I am out of compass, how lame is that?

3 hours of practice every day followed, next week

I was media compass, which means I was on the beat but starting in the wrong place

3 or 4 hours of practice every day followed, next week

I was staring the footwork on 12 instead of 1, A bad habit that I have developed.

2 hours of practice every day, next week

I am dancing with too much energy all the way through, I need to relax and put energy in right spot and chill the rest of the time otherwise it all looks the same.

I video tape myself dancing using my webcam at home to see which bits I can improve on. I think I do the too much energy only in class because of nerves, at home it seems ok. I decide to focus on relaxing while I dance and not be so intense. Now it is time to think about what to perform for our student recital. I come up with some material that I practice over and over again. I keep it simple so that I can do it well. Next Week.

In class I start dancing, the teacher stops me 30 seconds into my routine and tells me that it is all wrong. Structurally it is all wrong and I need to completely change my routine. I am taking too long to do anything interesting. I guess I am too relaxed at this point and doing it with no energy at all.

At home I come up with a different routine this time, I try to think about relaxing but staying intense at the same time. I feel confused at this point ... relax but not too much. I keep videotaping myself. Next week.

My routine is structurally sound, it seems ok. The teacher doesn't like the ending though. Still out of compass at the ending .... ah! how lame is that! How can I be out of compass. For the next three weeks I practice bulerias almost every day.

Finally I performed my 90 second bit at the student recital, here is a picture from the performance.

Will I ever get this thing called flamenco?

Let it rain, tears of joy

2009-07-31T11:19:00.002-07:00

Acrylic on Canvas
20x16 inches

Mid-day Journey

2009-07-25T18:05:00.001-07:00

Acrylic on Canvas
20x16 inches

Arabian Mornings

2009-07-23T08:33:00.001-07:00

Acrylic on Canvas
20x16 inches

Canadian Nights

2009-07-19T17:20:00.004-07:00

My nineth painting
Acrylic on Canvas
20x16 inches

Mailing List

2009-06-11T12:56:00.004-07:00

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Speech Fit for a President

2009-06-09T23:03:00.000-07:00

Dear Mr. Obama or any future president or presidentess to follow him;
Feel free to use this speech, which I have laboured to write for hours, free of charge provided that it is delivered in the white house addressing the American people.

Dear fellow American citizens;

Today is an important day in our history, for it is a day that will be marked in the future as the day of the genuine change. I am addressing you hoping that each one of you will help me starting a new page, for I can’t do it on my own; I need each one of you to think creatively on how to achieve our objectives as a nation.

I am honoured to be talking to you from the beautiful city of Washington, our proud capital and to be living in the white house as your elected president/presidentess. The white house, for 200 years has stood as a symbol of the American presidency and the aspirations of American people. I am grateful for the rare opportunity to enjoy the hospitality of the house provided by the nation. As your representative I have travelled all over the world, I am proud to carry with me the good will of diverse nations who are saying: Hola, Ahoy, Ni hao, Marhaba, Salut, Ciào, Yia sou, Shalom, Namaste, Ohayoou gozaimasu, Aawubona and many others which I have forgotten.

We meet at a time of tension between the U.S. and the other nations of the world. — tensions rooted in historical forces that go beyond any current policy debate. The relationship between the west and the east includes centuries of co-existence and cooperation, but also conflict and religious wars. More recently, tension has been fed by colonialism that denied rights and opportunities to many nations, and a Cold War in which the citizens of many countries were too often treated as proxies without regard to their own aspirations. Moreover, the sweeping change brought by modernity and globalization led many people to view the West as hostile to their old traditions.

We are a truly a great nation. We have excelled in science, placing the first man on the moon; our universities are centers of research and learning. From physics to history; our scientists and researchers have placed us on the forefront of excellence. More importantly, within our borders we have established a system that reflects the will of its people. In this wide and beautiful land lives millions of people, each and every one of them is able to speak his or her mind, worship god as they please and enjoy the freedom to live as they choose. Our system of government is based the rule of law and the equal administration of justice; government that is transparent and doesn't steal from the people. This is a truly amazing accomplishment, one which many nations strive for; yet for us it is reality on the ground that we take for granted. To our shores arrive every year, thousands of immigrants from the four corners of the earth. Seeking opportunities not available in their native lands. The United States has been one of the greatest sources of progress that the world has ever known. We were born out of revolution against an empire. We were founded upon the ideal that all are created equal, and we have shed blood and struggled for centuries to give meaning to those words — within our borders, and around the world. We are shaped by every culture, drawn from every end of the Earth, and dedicated to a simple concept: E pluribus unum: "Out of many, one." The dream of opportunity for all people has not come true for everyone in America, and its promise exists for all who come to our shores — that includes nearly the millions emigrants in our country today who enjoy incomes and education that sometimes are higher than average. Emigrants to our country have enriched the United States. They have fought in our wars, served in government, stood for civil rights, started businesses, taught at our Universities, excelled in our sports arenas, won Nobel Prizes, built our tallest building, and lit the Olympic Torch. Our history is not without blemishes. For centuries, black people in America suffered the lash of the whip as slaves and the humiliation of segregation. But it was not violence that won full and equal rights. It was a peaceful and determined insistence upon the ideals at the center of America's founding. The civil rights movement in the U.S, championed by Martin Luther King is a proud example to the whole world of how an oppressed minority can win its equal rights without using violence. We American citizens have plenty to be proud of.

However with regards to how we treated the rest of the world, our conduct has been less than stellar. In our quest to win the Cold War in the past we frequently supported oppressive regimes against the will of the people who live in those countries. Our leaders (democrats and republicans) have travelled the world preaching democracy and human rights, but their conduct has endorsed the complete opposite to serve our interest. Our government, in our name and towards our benefit, has placed brutal dictators in power, crushed democratic movements in third world countries and substantially undermined human rights. Afghanistan, is a case in point, of how we interfered in a country much to the detriment of its citizens. In our eagerness to defeat communism we endorsed and trained a most radical faction of Islam. While citizens of Afghanistan suffered the consequences of our actions, we celebrated winning our war against the Soviet Union. While the menacing threat of the monster we created was affecting only the lives of people in other countries we did not care. We rightfully felt outraged at the death of thousands in the 9/11 events, but we did not acknowledge that we had inflicted many equivalent catastrophes on other nations beforehand. We told ourselves “They hate us because of our democracy”, when in reality “They hated us because we denied them democracy while enjoying its fruit ourselves”. We condemned violence against us, but felt entitled to unleash it freely on anybody that stood in our self interest. We placed organizations and countries on the terrorist list for engaging in murdering children and the elderly, yet we engaged in acts of equal horror without any retribution. In Palestine we spent billions of dollars every year to arm the fourth’s strongest military power in the world to oppress a mostly hungry and unarmed population seeking the most minimum of human rights. We used the issue of woman rights to justify our interference in other countries that hurt both the men and woman in those places, yet in our own country women continue to earn 70% on a man’s salary and our culture continues to promote the idea of women as a cheap sex object. It's a story with a simple truth: violence is a dead end. It is a sign of neither courage nor power to shoot rockets at sleeping children, or to blow up old women on their way to the market. That is not how moral authority is claimed; that is how it is surrendered. It is time for a change. It is time for us to act in accordance to what we preach.

Today, we are the only super power. This is a difficult responsibility to embrace. For human history has often been a record of nations and tribes subjugating one another to serve their own interests. Yet in this new age, such attitudes are self-defeating. Given our interdependence, any world order that elevates one nation or group of people over another will inevitably fail. So whatever we think of the past, we must not be prisoners of it. Our problems must be dealt with through partnership; progress must be shared. That does not mean we should ignore sources of tension. Indeed, it suggests the opposite: we must face these tensions squarely. Our days of finger pointing at others is over, we will lead by example.Today we change our foreign policy and put an end to all our unwanted and uninvited interferences with the rest of the world. We will display our commitment to democracy and human rights not with words but with concrete actions.

On that day, all the nations of the world from Chile to Korea will stand up and applaud.

Fictional Thank You

2009-06-01T09:23:00.005-07:00

Special Note: Writing non-fiction has become too painful. I will write mostly fiction from now on. The following is fictional; all characters were made up in my imagination. Any similarity to people is accidental.

Doug had been checking his email every 5 minutes all day. The anticipation was hitting him like sea waves hitting the shore on a windy day. This was a seminal moment in his relationship with Nelly. “It is a good sign that she is taking her time responding” thought Doug to himself. “It means that she is putting thought into it, bound to be good”, he assured himself. When the email from Nelly finally arrived, with the subject line “Thank you for the lesson”. Doug sighed a big sigh of relief. “Aha! I got her exactly where I want” he said to no one in particular. He began to read in a hurry.

Dear Doug;

In Arabic we have a saying “Akbar menak beyoum, afham menak besanah”, translated to “the one that is older than you by one day understands a year worth more that you do”. Implying that older people have more knowledge. Well, I think that saying is nonsense. I have met many older people who didn’t know what they were talking about. In fact, I have discovered that, it is the younger people that we should try to learn lessons from. And you are a case in point. You see, I am a few years older than you and I have learned so much from just meeting you a few times.

For example, remember how you said that you didn’t know “he whom we do not speak off”, and now it turns out that he is a close friend of yours and you even refer to him with his real name. In my old traditional and backwards days I would have called that lying. But now, thanks to you I have realized that that is such a harsh and judgmental mentality that I live with. Thanks to you I have learned that this is called liberal and creative bending of factual verities. It was hugely difficult for me to share the story of my personal life. I am a fanatically private person. I have never told anybody about my dreams. My face was turning red with embarrassment each time I clicked the send button. I assured myself that I was communicating with a mature and reasonable person and that by doing my side of sharing, I was facilitating a discussion that allowed for depth. By not sharing I was holding myself in a power position and not allowing you to form your own informed opinion about the matter. When I learned that you shared my emails with your friends. I immediately jumped to conclusion and thought what a silly teenager who behaves like he has never talked to a real woman before. But now that I think about it I realize that I was very very old fashioned in my ways. This is not called immature behavior; this is called open minded egalitarian sharing of pertinent information.

When you forwarded our entire email conversation to “he whom we do not speak off”, without asking my permission in the matter, the first word that popped in my mind was betrayal. Ah! once again, I learn a new lesson on how my brain is wired the wrong way. Sharing private emails with a person known for his abrasive commentary instead of having the decorum of allowing me to decide whether I want to discuss my own view on the matter is not betrayal at all and decorum is old fogies word any way. It is called enlightened oness with the natural forces of nature.

To you respect is the odd sunny day in Seattle; But I grew up in the desert where it was sunny every day. But then every once in a while; a sand storm would arise and hide the sun behind a yellow haze. During those days, I tasted sand in my mouth and my eyes stung in pain as the sand granules hit my cornea. Doctors prescribed relocation to asthma patients, for only the tough can survive when it is sunny every day. Look how green and beautiful Seattle is. Clearly, your model of the odd sunny day yields better results. After all, what do I know? I am a failure on so many fronts. I am one of those losers that think that in life there are far worse things that can happen to you than failing in your pursuit. You can succeed, but lose yourself in the process. Frequently people get what they want by sleeping with the boss, or becoming experts at kissing ass. In those departments, I am a proud failure. But people who are focused on success don’t carry around such a backwards mentality.

I am a non exceptional person in almost everything. Looks, intelligence, talent, charm, luck .... you name it, I got some, but not that much. I am not smarter than the average person, nor better looking than the average woman, nor any more talented that average Joe next door. I got some smarts, adequate enough to help me get through the stuff that I need to, but not more than that. I got enough good looks to one day hopefully attract one good husband into my life, but nothing more. I have one area of excellence and one only. I am stubborn. If I decide that Mt. Rainier needs to move from its location, then you can bet that one day you will look on the Seattle horizon and be missing a mountain. Not because I know anything about digging mountains, not because of any physical strength that I possess, not because of any brilliant idea that I come up with that other people can't think off, but because of the strength of my determination. If I put it into my head that Mt. Rainier needs to move, god himself won't be able to stop me except by ending my life while I try to finish that which I have set my mind to. But next to your varied talents I can’t help but stand in awe of your awesomeness.

In fact, you are so splendidly great, that mortal words can’t comprehend your utter prominence. I can only wish that I would gain a fraction of your sense importance. Here I am talking to you in your language, using your cultural references, dressed in western clothing and it is me who doesn’t understand your culture. Yet you have been able to thoroughly understand my culture and declare yourself an expert in it without any effort all. You don’t know a single word from my language, you never heard the name of any poet from my homeland and you can’t stand listening to one minute of the music, nevertheless you can expertly analyze my behavior in reference to the disturbed images you have seen in TV. Dude! You are incredible. One day I will be able to do that and forgo the burden of study.

So thank you for the valuable lessons. I can’t wait for my next one.

I wish you happy hand induced sperm liberation while you write email sermons on freedom of speech and democracy as you view released from clothing images. You seem to be good …. at doing all three together I mean.

Tell all your friends that Nelly sends them her best wishes for a tender and sweet infiltration up their rears.

Oh! And do you remember how I said you would always be welcome to write on my blog. I retract that statement. I don’t feel worthy of your youthful, open minded presence.

Sincerely;
Nelly

.... To be continued

Play About Iraq in Vancouver

2009-05-15T09:48:00.006-07:00

PALACE OF THE END: is Western Canadian premiere of Judith Thompson’s trio of monologues based around the war in Iraq. Contains three monologues: A portrayal of the soldier who took the fall for the Abu Ghraib prison scandal; the dying reflections of the weapons inspector who blew the whistle on government justifications for the invasion of Iraq; a tea party with an Iraqi mother and political leader who suffered unfathomable loss at the hands of Saddam Hussein. May 21-June 6, Tuesday to Saturday at 8pm, Saturdays at 2pm and Sundays at 4pm. PAL Theatre (581 Cardero). Tix: $16-26, Tickets Tonight: 604.684.2787 or www.ticketstonight.ca. Info: www.touchstonetheatre.com.

Candy: A Poem by Yusuf Hassan

2009-02-24T17:13:00.003-08:00

Candy
A poem by my son
Yusuf Hassan
Age 8

Candy
Candy is yumy oh so sweet
When you have some you want
more. It makes you go crazy
and have a blast. Sugar come
rushing out
oh so fast. The end

Multicultural at the seams

2009-02-20T18:59:00.002-08:00

“I take the best of both cultures”, you will hear the child of an immigrant say when talking about integrating two cultures. Implying that they can pick and choose the most desirable elements of each culture, the way you select apples in a supermarket, discarding the undesirable refuse in a cultural garbage bin somewhere. But, I have found that culture is like air, you breath it in involuntarily only to read about pollution and toxins later in the news. Distinguishing the good from the bad happens in retrospect and far too late. At rare moments of clarity I find myself saying and doing things whose national origin I can clearly identify, but I find myself wondering how it crawled under my skin to find habitation in the mosaic of my personality.

“I take the worst of all cultures”, I found myself wondering a few days ago. “Take” being the wrong verb preceded by the wrong pronoun. The demons of the east wage war with demons of the west vying for territory inside a tired spirit. I don’t take anything, it devours me, spits me out only to sculpt a yet another effigy with the remains. How crafty is he, the god of multiculturalism, how creative. His concoctions never seize to amaze me.

“The worst of all cultures misappropriates me”, would be a more appropriate statement.

But, let’s assume that I am able to pick and choose from my varied backgrounds the influences that I desire. Let’s also assume that just to be different from all the “I take the best of both cultures” people that I instead decide to choose the worst of all cultures, just because I am evil. What would I be like?

If I could do that, I would be able to have so much fun.

I love living in Canada, but a few things I can’t get used to regardless of how long I live here. One these irksome cultural thingies is the lack of the concept of hospitality from the Canadian lexicon. Take the idea of potlatch dinners. ``Hey! I am having a party at my house, please bring your own food otherwise you will starve`` … What? Where I come from if you bring your own food to a party it means that you are insulting the hostess and accusing her of being a bad cook. How hard is it to put together a simple meal? To Canadians it must a major ordeal. Because a Canadian would rather endure having four different varieties of potato salad with a side of potato chips at his party than make the effort to figure out how to use the stove in his own kitchen. Nowadays I always carry a steel water bottle in my bag, because in Canada you will be sitting with your tongue hanging out before anybody offers you a glass of water. My favourite story of Canadian hospitality was a BBQ party held at somebody’s backyard, where the instructions asked people to bring their own lawn chair to sit on. When it started raining people began huddling together under umbrellas. The hostess didn’t want guests in her house, but went inside herself to keep herself dry, while her guests stayed outside under the rain. Canadian hospitality at its best.

From my Czech background, I would choose the relish with which people like to describe how miserable they are. I remember the nausea I felt one day when I asked an older woman in the Czech republic how she was. She spent half an hour describing a list of physical ailments body organ, by body organ and ended by describing the different secretions that come out of her vagina at different times and proceeded to describe how these different secretions smell …. I kid you not. After listening to her for half an hour I thought I was going to faint. A party in the Czech republic will always end with people discussing how difficult their life has been with each person trying to prove that his life is more difficult than the rest. Then everybody gets drunk and starts singing. Happiness in looked at with suspicion. Don’t ever show that you are happy or having a great time in the Czech republic, people will very quickly set you straight by reminding you about all the things that could go wrong.

From my Arabic background I would choose pretending that you adore people that you hate. In the Middle East, you will go to a wedding party and invariably bump into somebody you haven’t seen in ages for a very good reason. The two of you can’t stand each other, but for some reason that person feels the necessity to feign affection. They will tell you how much they miss you and proceed to pour words of saccharine fondness over your head that you will feel sticky in the aftermath. “O you look so beautiful, you haven’t changed one bit in the last 15 years” … yeah right! “Are these your children? They must be as smart as their mom” … leave my children out of this. “How is your mom and dad, I miss them so much, please say hello to them on my behalf” … you can call them yourself if you want to talk to them. “I was thinking about you the other day, and thinking what a wonderful person you are” … that is strange since you don’t answer my emails. “Your eyes have the beautiful color of hazelnuts and your hair is smooth as silk” … O God when will this end.

To celebrate the worst of all cultures I will organize a multicultural party. Where no food is served and nobody is allowed to bring any food at all. That way we don’t gain weight. We will sit in my backyard in the Vancouver rain and compete in telling stories about how sad and pathetic our lives are. Words like bile, body secretions, depression and dark clouds are encouraged. If you have a happy life then please have the courtesy towards other people by making up distressing events about yourself so that the gloomy mood of the party is not disturbed. The person with the most pitiable life story will receive a card with syrupy compliments that are completely untrue and utterly unrelated to the receiver.

Love - Poem By Yarra Hassan

2009-02-13T13:18:00.005-08:00

Love
Poem by my daughter Yarra Hassan
Age 10

Love is like a spring when
someone give it to you it springs
out and show all over your face.
When love is found light
shines all over you and you feel
good inside and when someone
see it they want it too!

ICD-9-CM Diagnosis 338

2009-02-09T18:47:00.002-08:00

My uncle in Baghdad thinks that I have become too western.
I live three blocks away from my parents, instead of living together in one big house.
My friends in Vancouver think that it is weird that I enjoy hanging out with my parents as much as I do. Strong family ties don’t reconcile with the individualism fetish.
Such are the dilemma’s of a wandering spirit. Not really belonging to either culture.
Living life in the awkward spaces in between.
Necessary compromises.

Ducking under a table at the sound of a bang. Anxiety sweats running down my thighs.
“Breathe deeply” I tell myself.
“Breathe deeply, you are now in Canada”, I remind myself.
The traumatizing effects of living in war zone.
One, maybe two years.
Sooner or later the body memory will be gone.
No longer anticipating a bullet.

Then comes the realization.
We were once a nation of culture.
We were once a nation of beauty.
I don’t see a trace of that when reading the daily news paper.
“Are you sunni or shea’a?” asks a friend.
We were once a proud nation.
And the sting of that never wears off.