The post Mother Tongue (Poetry) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Or, si l’on passe de l’origine du mot au concept, on voit que l’acte d’expression en tant qu’urgence d’extériorisation et d’explicitation, convoquant à la fois socialité et individualité, corporéité et normativité, ne peut être aujourd’hui recompris qu’à partir de la pensée de Merleau-Ponty ou d’une phénoménologie sémiotique, dont le défi « est bien de respecter le caractère à la fois public et incarné de l’expression » (V. Rosenthal, Y.-M.Visetti).

Le bref texte poétique ici proposé, À la naissance du sens aborde la problématique de l’expression, et de sa liberté, pour ainsi dire à l’état naissant, sous l’impulsion et la ‘pression’ du souffle et de la voix. Car l’entente seule du tremblement d’air de l’autre, dans ma proximité à son souffle et, inversement, de ma voix au dehors, dans l’écoute de l’autre, atteste enfin ma voix. C’est de cet échange de voix qui s’entendent et se répondent, de cette expérience d’une réversibilité sensible, qu’émerge tout sens. En termes merleau-pontiens « le sens est pris dans la parole et la parole dans l’existence extérieure du sens. »

De ce double mouvement, mouvement chiasmatique, entre le dedans et le dehors, le moi et l’autre, s’ouvre alors un nouvel horizon éminemment éthique, si par éthique – comme le souligne magnifiquement Patrick Leconte – « il faut entendre d’abord et essentiellement [...] cette modalité de l’exister, selon laquelle le soi accède à soi dans la proximité de l’autre ».

                             À  la naissance du sens

• De ta chair sonore
• au dedans
• doux vibre silencieux
• ton souffle charnel
• et fugitif couve et bat
• de tes poumons à ta gorge
• Sous ton plexus solaire
• sous tes rondes papilles
• mûre s’ouvre comme une pêche
• aux rougeurs d’été ta voix
• à ma caresse vocale
• Fautive à l’entente de mon souffle
• qui m’échappe
• de ton souffle
• qui s’élance
• je m’abreuve alors
• de nos voix
• au dehors
• et je bois et m’émerveille
• à l’estuaire du son
• à la naissance du sens

The post À la naissance du sens (Poetry) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Greece,
Your no is also a yes
To other things,
You spurned usurers
For Athens’ pride

Greece,
You stood through war
Resisted fascists,
Your poets wrote poems
On cigarette packs

Greece,
Your silences are oracles
Of time’s future,
With your aching hands
You fisted tables

You resisted the enemy
Greece,
You sabotaged
The plans of annexation
Burning bridges

Greece,
You let Marx sit on your
Stoic shoulders,
Your cynics defied kings
Trusted workers

Your history is a miracle
Greece,
You are a library
Of words that escaped fire
Survived Caesar

The world is in your debt
Greece,
They can’t repay
The wonders of your urns
And your verses

Today you brave penury
Greece,
With the grit
Of a working class poet
Who resisted

He left behind omens
On paper
They remain inscribed
In the eyes

“But perhaps dawn will reveal a new face”^[1]

Manash Bhattacharjee
July 10, 2015, Delhi

The post No is Yes (poetry) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

Why I left when I did and could not say goodbye:

The prison cell of memory / the decade of letters to the boy in Brooklyn/ the bleached bones / the runway of nightmare / the parched stillness echoed in hospital rooms / the clenched fists / the shivering night sky / the shattered glass in balconies on three continents / the silence/ the pity/ the rage in bones / the “I feel butchered / like someone / cut and cut and cut / all the humanity/ left nothing but rage”

The mother outside morgue paralyzed by grief / cries “I am not sorry for the martyr in you” / the revisionist history / the it did not happen / the they said it was different / so it was different / no one ever asked how or why / the sea of tents / the echo of lifeless / the limelight vertigo/ the blood soaked streets / the it did not happen / the revisionist history / my children will one day ask about

You are a body that needed a home/ now you are ruins and home is wound

The stillness of the midnight sky / before tear gas climbs down staircase of metro station the bodies start falling like thunder/ like applause / like paralyzed mind/ waiting to be jolted by lightning

The I do not sleep / the I wake for memory / the close my eyes and all I hear is gunfire / tilt head back and exhale for quiet / instead I am falling / falling / falling / into the broken teeth of this city / with blood-crusted fingernails / bruised knuckles/ and burnt bodies sketched with charcoal on the back of my eyelids/ the letter this week is about losing myself

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

The arms wrapped around blanket during October sunrise / no map / no mercy / no melody / only cloud as corpse to guide the way / the unwritten letters

The months go by/ the I do not recognize myself/ overdose on pills /as shrapnel fills throat/ asleep with the intimacy of loss / resting on my side table/ with yesterday’s coffee grains / the trying to remember to forget / and always forgetting to not remember / the I do not write to him for 64 days

The count to five and breathe / the 1-2-3-4-5 exhale / close my eyes and /all I see is ornament of burial shroud / sunset painted with massacred veins / city of lanterns with purple haze / marketplace of sorrow/ glass shards meet concrete / another balcony / the unkempt hair / the midnight walks / the hollowed out / clawed out / the rotting and ripe presence / of batons and blockades / and another and another and another / letter from prison cell / the are you okay? / the are you happy?/ the before I sleep I am still talking to your silhouette on walls

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

Suez is burning / Sinai is burning / Port Said is burning / Maspero is burning / Ittahadeya is burning / Tahrir is burning / my world is burning and all I can do is write / to the boy in Brooklyn / who taught me how to be / the hollow frame of a body / in spite of the flames

The aftermath/ the mayhem of survival/ the mayhem of empty/ the mayhem of the broken hymn / of the hundredth goodbye

The I left when I did / nothing familiar / about myself / left / I left the letters behind / box full / overflowing / of handmade paper / flowers pressed between the map to the morgue and memory overflowing of / nothing but hollow

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

The I still write to him / the I still write to him / not of hollow / not of loss / not of adventure / or defeat / or love / but of finding a way out / of lifeless and love in spite of loss / of starting over / of lifeless and love in spite of loss / of leaving / of lifeless and love in spite of loss

You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound
You are a body that needed a home / now you are ruins and home is wound

The you can walk away / the you can always say enough / the you can always say today / I will watch the world burn / from another balcony

The post Homes of Loss (spoken-word poetry by Maheen Hyder) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

Talk Show Hosts, Radiohead

When you are on a plane, trapped in the clouds, you are nowhere. Not really nowhere: you are somewhere. A moving point in space mapped by some sophisticated cartographic technology. But, you are detached from everything that transforms spaces into places; in a sense you are detached from reality. It is suspended like you within an atmospheric cushion. Somewhere within this specific dot crossing the Atlantic, I sat in the forced darkness intending to mimic a natural night, while we were buckled into our leather seats, breathing the artificial air. I tried to close my eyes, to sleep like the others around me, but sleep would not come. I glanced at his sleeping profile next to me, at his translucent skin, his straight nose, his thin lips. In his sleep, he lost his fierce intensity, the stony veneer that demanded respect. In his sleep, he looked vulnerable, and I felt both protected and protective. Without turning the light on, I opened my sketchbook, flipping through the pages quickly without lingering, past sketches and charcoals, collaged pages dried stiff with primers and glue, thin wrinkled pages covered with lists of things I had to do or should have done but had forgotten to. The faint, comforting chemical smell of gesso mingled with the chilled, recycled air, until I arrived at an empty page. With the strange music playing in my ears just loud enough to cut the throbbing of the engines but not loud enough to be perceptible to anyone else, I took out the pencil and began to draw him, my hand moving blindly in the dark. My focused but quick glances transferred the details to my fingers with an understanding that was beyond vision. Lines turned into shapes and shapes into volumes, exactly as I was once taught, the traditional way, to follow the positive space. Whenever I was under stress, I reverted to old habits and learned ways of seeing. I shaded the pocket of skin under his eye, the shadow that fell across his face, and his lips so thin they looked as if they could disappear. In the dim light of the cabin, I could not make out exactly what I had drawn. The sketch was incomplete, half a sketch of half a face. It was only an impression – or even less than that: it was a mood.

The songs playing in my head continued to speak to me even as my desire to draw ended. I began a game I have played since I was a little girl. I began to write the words I heard coming through the headphones. And the words I did not understand, that I could not decipher, I made up, filling the blanks with my own lyrics. At some point, you cannot write fast enough to the pace of the rhythm and you lose the thread. When this happens, the short lines change into sentences, and the words break into a trajectory of their own. And the words began to take over the page, to occupy the negative space around the drawing, that sacred whiteness we were taught to always respect. The scribbles in the margins became the center and the center shifted into the margins. I could not see the letters as I transcribed the lines, but it did not matter, I continued until the song ended. And when I looked up, after long minutes that had stretched beyond measurable time, he was awake again, watching me, his lips slowly formed a half-smile, sleepy and lazy. And although he was the one waking up, I looked back at him as if I had been the one dreaming, as if he had woken me up.

I shut the sketchbook in the half darkness, my own expression invisible as I pulled off his headphones and turned towards him.

***

How come I end up where I started?
How come I end up where I went wrong?
Won’t take my eyes off the ball again.
First you reel me out, and then you cut the string.

15 Step, Radiohead

When my grandmother gathered us to tell a story, as she reigned on the blue velvet bergère while we claimed our territories on the worn antique Persian carpet that covered her cold gray marble floors. She would always begin with a soft, trembling voice, “Once there was, and once there was not.” We knew, of course, she told these stories to imprint her moral of the day on our impressionable ears: the young must always respect their elders; the kind always win; the obedient always get the prize; “our” culture always prevails; nevertheless we listened, as we were transported from our boring lives to magical and grotesque lands where virtuous girls were transformed to princesses and rebellious ones were doomed to have slimy frogs spewing out of their mouths forever. As she recited her carefully formed lessons disguised as stories, hybrids of French fairy tales meshed with Arabian Nights, I fixated on those first words, that contradictory opening, on the confusing duality of what was and what was not, distracted by the impossibility of something both being and not being, of a story happening and not. Did it or didn’t it? Years later, you learn that some things in fact both happen and don’t happen, that your life teeters on an invisible line between existence and absence. You realize that a story unfolds in infinite possibilities; that what wasn’t and what didn’t define your life as much as what was and what did.

The only story that exists is the one we remember, right now, in this moment. All other versions disappear and become irrelevant. It’s the truth: once there was, and once there was not. Once, the past is clear, and once again, the memory is blurred.

Gather around and listen to the tale before it is erased, listen as we glorify parts of our past and selectively change others, as we shift and stretch our truth. And so we begin with, once there was, and once there was not. But there was, there was…

My story ends where it began. Waiting. How long do we wait, thinking, “What if?” Obsessing about “What if?” What if the choices you thought were right were not the right ones? What if you just played a part that someone else had written for you? What if you lived your life through the words of others, the rules of others, the expectations of others, the lyrics of others? What if you waited too long, just to see what if, just to see what is? How long do you wait? Years pass as you wait, and you realize our childhood  dreams of what we would be do not match up to what we have become. This is the dark age of life, when we are unable to change the past, yet we are haunted by our perfect, gained-in-hindsight wisdom, and we are unable to accept the future as we now know it will unfold. So we wait, and we delay enlightenment in perpetual procrastination. We kill time, we start over, start again.

My name is Naya, from the reeds, from the ney, the ancient flute made from sugar canes that grew tall on the banks of the Nile. Each golden column is picked out of the marshes, its head and tail lopped off, its sweetness sucked out, and it becomes an empty vessel, depleted and useless, until someone picks it up and puts it to his lips and breathes into the dried tube a new life, a sound, a melody, creating something beautiful out of nothing. The ney, the instrument of the wind and the page, is older than time. It was etched onto the walls of the Pyramids, it was prized in Roman courts, it inspired countless poems of Rumi, it was sharpened and used as a pen to fill blank pages with the history of men. When the reed grew too long to play, it was used as a walking stick, propping up those who leaned unto it for support. Sometimes, when the weight of men became too heavy to bear, the reed would splinter and puncture their tightly clasping palms, their blood staining the golden surface, their flesh digging into the vertical fibers.

You don’t know me, but you have read my words, you have heard my notes. I live in your headphones, whisper in the night, and lull you to sleep. I exist to inspire, to enchant, to depress, to haunt, to tell my fragmented story. I’m in the middle of your picture, hiding in the reeds. But you don’t see me, you don’t hear me, for I am invisible. For I am nothing but an instrument.

***

I shift my weight from one aching foot to the other. I shouldn’t have worn these shoes. I wonder if I should change into the flats stashed in my purse. It’s crazy; he isn’t even going to see my feet, but I’m convinced the extra four inches will improve my view. With my earbuds in place, I try to focus on the music and forget the pain shooting up the backs of my legs. I pass the time watching people walking past me to join the back of the growing line. While waiting in line for a band you love, you are surrounded by people who have nothing in common with you but your obsession. Waiting in line for a concert is as important as the concert itself. This is where you meet the die-hard fans, the ones who upload their carefully recorded videos on YouTube, grainy evidence that they were there and were willing to stand still for an entire song to freeze the memory and share it with everyone else who could not be there. In the line, their abstract user names flesh into reality, virtual Facebook friends who finally acquire a real face. This is where you can discuss the songs and the lyrics in minute detail without sounding crazy. You can freely analyze the implications of a change of a word in a song between live and recorded versions, and exchange theories behind the intention of the changes. No judgment. After years of no one in your real life understanding this passion, here you belong, with your like-minded tribe of fundamentalists, all searching for meaning in the same place. These unwavering, intense feelings should have been a red flag telling me I had gone too far. But is it insane to find a home, a belonging, in a Radiohead concert line? Not at all.

The guy next to me leans against the brick wall, a lanky indie-type dressed in faded jeans and a grungy, frayed t-shirt. He was trying too hard to fit in with the nonchalant, just-rolled-out-of-bed and probably stoned majority of the crowd. Not that I cared – I didn’t fit in either, overdressed as I usually am when I’m nervous. He tells me he is not from New York, he drove down from Maine. He is an environmental lawyer and used funds from a corporate settlement to bid on this last-minute charity concert for ultimate Radiohead fans to raise money for Haiti. He tells me he went to the Met today to look at the Van Goghs. He describes, with obvious pride, his elaborate, complicated theory that the singer is Van Gogh reincarnated. He goes on and on, comparing songs to paintings of bedrooms and sunflowers. I listen, having heard weirder Radiohead theories. To keep him talking and stay in my half zoned-out state, I nod in agreement.

Then he looks at me and asks, “Do you think he has a muse?” I smile, and say, “Every artist has a muse.”

Muse, I think. Why do people always want to find out where things come from, to dissect the origin of inspiration? We have a need to explain the intention of art, an urge to take it apart and see how it works, as if we could explain it, as if it would become tangible, as if we all could tap into it like a mythical fountain of creativity and absorb it for ourselves. An instinctive need to figure it out and steal away its magic. A muse doesn’t create the art, she drives it; to be a muse is to be used, analyzed, objectified. To fulfill her duty, a muse must weave an invisible web of truthful lies – deep lies excavated from memory, with a glossy sheen of truth applied to the surface – at once inspiring and intoxicating.

To change the subject, I wonder aloud about what the setlist will be tonight. As expected, a heated discussion concerning possible song selections and speculation about new tracks begins between the lawyer and a group of guys behind me. I leave them completely now, relieved to be finally alone with my music and my thoughts. I used to be like them but I’m not anymore. I’m just playing the part of a regular (okay, intense) fan. When I know that with just a couple of texts I could be on the other side of this brick wall. With him.

The line begins to move forward when the doors open, and I turn and give my new friend a piece of advice. “Stand in front of the piano. Left of stage.” I try to erase thoughts of the past as I turn the volume up. The line inches forward.

Listen to my story, before the wait is over, before it slips away from my memory, before it shifts again, listen, while I can still remember. Slip inside my headphones. Step into the infinite tunnel between my ears and my mind, where my thoughts are triggered by a voice, a note, a word. Can you hear them?

Once there was a muse, the daughter of memory and the lover of inspiration. She held all the desires of the world within her. Once there was not.

***

transport, motor ways, and tram lines
                               starting and then stopping
            taking off and landing
                                    the emptiest of feelings
                                                                disappointed people
shell smashed, juices flowing
                                 wings twitch, legs are going
                                                                don’t get sentimental
                                                            it always ends up drivel

Let Down, Radiohead

I hate waiting in line. Especially airport lines. I hate check-in lines, security lines, boarding lines, lines that snake in endless labyrinthine mazes, lines that make you rock from one foot to the next, twisting your neck and your back, until every minuscule movement ails your body, and still the line doesn’t move. My people hate standing in line, except in prayer. When they pray, they submit to the line that represents the belief that all men are equal in front of Allah. But that equality evaporates at the bakery, in front of the bus stop, or in an airport; anywhere else it’s every man for himself, pushing and shoving to be first. But, since the fateful September morning when everything changed forever, we navigate a world where we are not only not equal to, but we are officially less than all others. You must not complain, you must not attract attention. You must appear normal, you must stand in line and try to disappear.

I watch the smug airline employee behind his station moving as slowly as possible. Was he trained to read our collective stress, boredom, and exhaustion? I wonder how he learned to move in opposite proportion to the frustration level of the passenger, to type continuously while gazing at the screen with glazed eyes, to speak in slowing syllables in a monotone voice. He must be addicted to our suffering, inhaling our fumes of distress and anxiety. I imagine he would be a sadistic torturer in another life, in another country.

You hate it but you have to go through it, like everyone else who has to get from point A to point B. And eventually, if you make enough international flights, from the Middle East to the US and back, sooner or later, you will connect through London Heathrow. This is where I am today, on the 5^th of January 2003, waiting, in line.

Terminal 5 is drab and nondescript. The best thing about Terminal 5 is leaving it. Whenever I’m here, I wonder why they couldn’t have built a better airport, one that welcomes you to England, instead of this massive, uninspiring gray block.

I know airports are hard to design because I have designed one. Not a real one, but on paper, which to an architecture student feels like the real thing. There aren’t many ways to create interesting spaces that meet the endless criteria and needs of gates, security, and runways. Mechanics and logistics make it difficult to insert inspiration and so the coolness that true architecture is supposed to exude dies in an airport. The airport is a building designed for maximum efficiency of movement: moving people with their overstuffed suitcases, moving everything along, up and down escalators, zipping across walkways. The airport is made for motion; once you stop, the flaws appear. All the design mistakes crystalize in the immobile moments. The still perspectives and carefully constructed 3D renderings that architects use for presentations tend to disguise the spaces as perfect snapshots, covered in appealing surfaces and filled with happy tourists. It is far from the messy reality you only experience by being there. We try our best to distract you, to make you forget where you are. We cover the walls, ceilings and floors with signs, colored flags or whatever cultural emblem or historical artifact that signifies: you are here; you are an international traveler; you have arrived! Like the interiors of Vegas casinos that artificially place you somewhere specific, to distract you from where you really are, the flimsy facade cannot disguise the fact that you are in an airport, in isolation. You are not in a place at all, you are expected to move quickly, spend money, and lately, strictly adhere to convoluted security policies. The slickest of architectural tricks can try to make you forget that you are a passport number in a line, but no amount of fancy sky lights, over-designed geometric columns, or in-house museums can make frustration disappear. Nothing can make you forget that you are in an airport.

While you are stuck in line, personal methods of distraction and defense work the best. Your cell phone, a book (though I find it hard to read while standing), and your music are essentials. I am addicted to my new, glossy iPod, both minimalist and trendy with the all-important white ear pods. Keep the volume low or even off if you want, but keep those white earbuds in place at all costs. It is your barrier against intrusive people asking for directions, asking if there is a delay, asking if you are on the same flight, asking if they are in the right line, or worse just to chat. As I wait, I try not to stress because I should be in Providence right now, getting ready for studio tomorrow. But of course I can’t forget, I’m stranded in Terminal 5.

***

I must admit, with all its faults, Heathrow doesn’t compare to the horrid excuse for an airport that is Aleppo International. The building is an iconic representation of the smoky, dusty, and cold socialist Syrian architecture of the last thirty years. Although winters in Aleppo are mild, the desert night chill leaks through the unheated interiors, the kind of cold that my mother says seeps into your bones. In these public buildings you must wrap yourself in as many layers as possible, not just for warmth but to visually bulk up and look as unattractive as possible to avert the looks of the sleazy men who hang out in dark corners watching every person who comes and leaves. Gawkers who have nothing better to do than loiter around the airport in the middle of the night, eating you with their eyes, studying your movements like hawks, listening in on your conversations and mentally taking notes. Don’t look directly at anyone; your eyes must be kept down at all costs. Here, an iPod is not a distraction but a red flag of frowned upon over-westernization; I keep it hidden away in my bag, but I mentally shut myself down and put on an impenetrable expression as cold as the stone walls.

Although I made my teary goodbyes to my family hours ago, it always feels like I’m continuously saying goodbye until I set foot in America. Until then, I cannot think of my life in Providence or my freedom. Until then all I can think of is my home, my mother and my father, and everything I left behind. I was supposed to depart on yesterday’s three a.m. British Airway’s flight from Aleppo to London on an plane coming from Damascus, but after a series of unfortunate delays, overbookings, and missed connections, I spent last night in London and was rerouted on the next evening flight to JFK, scheduled to arrive at my final destination exactly 48 hours later than expected. Delays are a standard part of experiencing Middle Eastern travel, so in reality this Heathrow line was not too bad.

There is a word architects love – ‘threshold’: the border between two separate yet connected spaces. The threshold of a house separates inside from out. At an airport, security separates being in and out of transit. Because we architects are taught to insert meaning into the mundane, we use the word to describe limits, boundaries, spaces of transition. Although I don’t know it yet, the line I wait in is a “threshold moment”, a temporal boundary, between what happened before and what will happen after. These moments can only be analyzed later; no one knows what exact moment will define who we are to become: an accident, a job interview, a meeting, a coincidence. Some are obvious clichés: getting married, having a baby, the death of your parents, these are expected transitions and can be prepared for in advance. Others are hidden, encoded into your DNA, they wait to emerge, to change the future and bring the past into focus. Sometimes it’s called luck, fate, free will, bad choices, all the words we use to explain our lives, but this is what my father has been saying to me for years: everything is written. We are not accidents waiting to happen.

Destiny waits with me in line. Or in two lines, to be precise.

***

Open your mouth wide,
a universal sigh.
And while the ocean blooms,
it’s what keeps me alive.
So why does it still hurt?
Don’t blow your mind with why.

Bloom, Radiohead

I pass the time watching people around me, particularly in the enviously short first class line. My only consolation was that I knew I looked better than most in the business and first class lines. I was dressed mostly in black, save the fuchsia cashmere scarf that my mother wrapped around my neck as I was leaving our apartment, to shield me from the cold, she said, and to break the depressing black. My mother always wrapped a warm gesture around a criticism. Architects, like artists, like to wear black because it is the color of the intellectual yet artsy, smart yet creative, types. Fitted black clothes, black messenger bags, and black thick-rimmed glasses, render us a blank canvas, with no distracting colors or fussy details. My scarf peeping out of my jacket was like the sliver of a metal zipper, or the slim red strip of rubber peeking from the back of your Prada shoes. Whether an ethnic detail or trademark glasses or a discreet logo, we want to be blank but also known. We also judge harshly, even though we pretend we don’t. You learn to “curate” your image early on in art school if you haven’t already in your teenage angst years. From your thoughts to your voice, every detail on and within your canvas is an opportunity to display this carefully formed image. The worst thing to happen to an architecture student is to be called a slacker (for actually needing and getting over six hours of sleep) or an idiot (for wearing bright colors or sounding too American). No one wants to sound “too American,” not even the Americans. Having a slight Euro accent is extremely useful at design school. Not too thick, just a faint sound of otherness is enough. For me having the accent was no problem, I could go either way, perfectly American at the Stop and Shop grocery store, to slightly “other” in studio, creating the coveted “European” twinge, to the point that my professors thought I knew French or at least Spanish when I didn’t. Worldliness, real or feigned, is necessary to survive. I was surprised when I found this need to be slightly foreign was so important in America. In Syria the expats’ kids who were dragged to visit the homeland every summer would be tormented every time they made a mistake while speaking to relatives, until they gave up on learning Arabic and reverted to the natural American drawl that we all secretly wanted for ourselves.

I entertain myself by texting back and forth with my best friend, Lamia, already in Providence. I know I am going to be screwed with charges, but I convince myself this is necessary to keep my sanity. Rocking on the balls of my black on black leather Pumas, back and forth, a familiar scent mixes with the canned airport air. I glance to my left, and in an instant I wish the entire floor of the airport would break open and swallow me.

He is in the line next to mine, supporting a tall, blonde girl leaning casually against his chest. She whispers something to him and they both laugh. I glance at them sideways, moving slightly to hide behind the guy in front of me. They look like the typical jet-setter couple, the ones you see in magazines, the ones that tell you how you are supposed to look while traveling. Casual yet fitted jackets and jeans and just enough tonal but visible logos on shoes and bags to mark themselves as different, as better. I watch as he slowly massages her shoulders with his clean-shaven face close to her golden, sleek hair. The memory of him touching my hair chokes me. I blink back my tears and try to arrest the flush that creeps unto my face. Of all the fucking British Airways’ flights from London to New York, I have to be stuck on one with him. I wish I were in studio like I was supposed to be, I wish I were anywhere else but here. I keep glancing towards them and turn away a moment too late, just as he catches me watching them. He steps out of the line and walks over.

He taps my shoulder, says, Hey.

I slip off my earbuds, pull my shoulders back and smile, secretly grateful for stretch jeans that don’t lose their cling and for freshly blow-dried hair, because as image-conscious Lamia reminded me that morning, you never know who you will meet in an airport. Because I haven’t spoken for hours, my voice cracks as I say, Hi Omar.

He grasps my shoulders and kisses my cheeks three times in the Lebanese style that Syrians love to imitate. His strong cologne envelopes me in a heavy cloud of past moments just like this one. He asks me about my classes, haven’t they already started?

I tell him that I’ve had a bit of a delay, hating him for remembering my schedule and nothing else. I look up and watch the sympathetic words fly out of his mouth, while his ill-concealed smirk tells me he doesn’t feel bad at all.

I smile and tell him it actually worked out perfectly, I had a great time in London. He keeps going, that I should have texted him, that I knew he was here for the week, that we could have had dinner together, with Elise, as he points to the blonde girl who smiles and waves perkily.

I try to think of a way out of this dead end, but I am stuck in my frozen line, hostage to his faux compassion and annoyingly effective charm. I can hear him telling me how they just met in London, and how she lives in New York, and how she works at a museum, one of the ones I love, but I am only half-listening, my eyes taking in the fragments of him which I can get away with, his jaw, his hand gesturing, the glint of silver from his watch peeking out under his white shirt sleeve. I let out a relieved sigh when he finally stops speaking.

Tilting his head towards me, he asks, Habibti, what’s wrong? The sound of his old endearment jolts me back to my senses. He’s throwing around “my love” with such carelessness, and I wonder, not for the first time, if he’s ever meant it.

My eyes slant slightly as I look up into his dark eyes, and they become tender for a moment as they always used to do when he knew he’d got to me, always so easily. He asks me how long I’m going to be in New York and before I can answer his real-life Barbie calls out in a high-pitched whine, Omar, it’s our turn honey, butchering his name, O-mar, mispronouncing the first letter. Non-Arabs can never pronounce it, the guttural ‘ayn they make into a long O, their mouths shaped into a perfect circle. But really, it starts with a harshness in your throat, softly bypasses your mouth to slip effortlessly out of your lips.  He used to make fun of people like her.

Isn’t she cute? he says, distracted for a moment. Gotta go, I’ll catch up with you at the gate. He stops and turns back and says, Change your attitude, grudges don’t suit you. How long are you going to stay mad? He gives me a quick peck on the cheek and squeezes my shoulder.

Forever, I think to myself, feeling my bones under his tight grip. But again, I just smile back.

As he walks back to his line, I try to see what was holding up mine. The culprit is a family with two kids and a screaming baby, overloaded with heavy luggage and American “need special treatment” attitudes. Now that I am aware of them standing three feet away from me, the cool calm I was feeling before evaporates. My applied glaze of confidence shattered into pieces, I feel exposed, standing alone, next to him but not next to him. The line becomes unbearable as each minute stretches into the next. All I can think is, we can’t be moving parallel to each other.

I wave to an airline employee patrolling the cordoned edge, and tell him that I’m about to miss my flight and need to check in immediately. I use every ounce of charm I have in me. If I were in Syria, I would have bribed him with five hundred lira, but of course all I can do here is use my sweetest tone and hope I will get my way. He eyes me with suspicion, he can tell it’s bullshit, but he unclips the cord and leads me to the empty first class line. Just wait here, he says. I can feel the rolling eyes of the economy line on my back, but I pretend I don’t care. I catch Omar’s eye as I walk past, and he gives me an amused look, the one he always gave me when I would manipulate a situation to my advantage. I ignore him as well. I pull out my ticket and passport and step up to the counter.

Miss, this is a first class line, she says holding my ticket, without looking at me.
Yes, but the kind gentleman led me here since there was no one in this line. I say this as I think, you are such a bitch.
But look behind you, there is a passenger waiting.
I turn around and see the back of a guy. In the saccharin tone I’m still using, I say, I’m sure that he doesn’t mind. Look, he’s on his phone.
She proceeds with extremely slowed motions, clucking her disapproval at having to serve a lowlife economy passenger. It occurs to me that as long I am here, I may as well ask for a better seat, maybe even one in business class. I take a deep breath and say in my most sophisticated voice, with my slanted accent, Is there any way I could get an upgrade? I just had the worst trip ever and…
She cuts me off briskly, I can’t give you an upgrade to first class. I hope that isn’t why you came to this line.
No, no, listen, I say, lowering my voice to a whisper, Do you see that guy in the business class line with the blonde? He is my ex-boyfriend, and I need to change my seat, just to business, not first.
She looks at my passport again, You are only twenty-four. He looks much older than you, dear.
I know, I know, as I hide the side of my face with my hair so Omar cannot see this exchange of desperation.
She stares at the computer. I can’t bring myself to look behind me at the growing line of people who paid triple what I did for their tickets.
Sorry, I can’t do anything about it now. We’re completely booked. Try at the gate.
It’s okay, I appreciate it, I say in my normal voice, with no effort to hide my disappointment.
You’re going to have a great flight, dear.
I can’t convince myself to believe her cheery prediction.

****

there are front doors,
and there are revolving doors
doors on the rudders of big ships
we are revolving doors
there are doors that open by themselves
there are sliding doors and there are secret doors
there are doors that lock and doors that don’t
there are doors that let you in and out but never open
but there are trap doors
that you can’t come back from

Pulk/Pull Revolving Doors, Radiohead

The Roseland, with its seedy history, touristy location, and banal facade, is a building with an attitude. Tonight the building with nothing to prove, with no sparkle or fancy lights, has a string of people wrapped in a necklace around the city block, which begins to overlap at the seam, starting a second human strand. As I approach the entrance there is a solemn aura mixed with anticipation hovering around the doors. The last time they played in this former ice-skating rink turned roller-skating rink turned disco nightclub and finally generic ballroom, was in 2000, after the release of Kid A. I found out much later that the tickets had sold out in minutes, that it was one of the most anticipated shows that year. Back then, I still lived in Syria, a world away from New York, and Radiohead was just another band I listened to among many others, before they occupied my playlists alone. But tonight, I have my coveted ticket in my hand, after bidding a dear price for it in the name of charity, although it may be hard to determine who really needs to be saved, the people of Haiti or me. The concert’s agenda is to be an intimate affair, a performance for the most dedicated of fans, most of whom have only seen Radiohead play at festivals, watching them projected onto massive screens while they swim in a sea of tens of thousands of people. But tonight I am prepared. I’ve made sure I’ll get a great spot inside. I paid a homeless guy yesterday to stand in line for me, and a few hours ago I took his place, to experience the anticipation myself.

On the floor, I am surprised at how large the space is when empty. People rush to the front but still they are scattered. I know that soon my personal space will be as small as my footprint, bound by the people who will crowd around me. And now bodies begin to press forward, heat and odors rolling off them. By the end the scent will be much stronger but less noticeable, because, by then, after seeping into our skin and hair, it will belong to all of us. I maneuver myself to the front, one row behind the rail, to the left, near the piano, to be as close as possible. Everyone knows being on the rail is not cool; there’s too much pressure and not enough space. Everyone knows he doesn’t focus on the people on the rail, the clamoring girls and guys who spend the entire concert trying to catch his eye, holding up their cameras and phones, red lights and flashes shining in his face. He looks just beyond, at the true fans who have just enough room to dance and listen without hanging on his every breath.

In the moments before it begins, everything is still perfect, after our expectation has been set and before any disappointment arrives. It’s been so long since I’ve looked forward to anything. It feels strange. Once I looked forward to everything. I have stood exactly in this place dozens of times in dozens of cities, and I try not to think why I am so nervous this time, why I feel this time will be the last time. I shake off the negativity and immerse myself in the crowd. They lift me out of the past and into the present tense.

***

After finally checking in, as I walk outside for a last cigarette before boarding, I text my Lamia quickly. I sit on the edge of a concrete planter and light up. Within thirty seconds I receive “asshole” back from her. I smile, twirl my finger on the white wheel, hearing the clicks in my ear as I turn up the volume and stretch out my legs. I inhale the smoke and exhale the stress. Someone sits right next to me even though there is plenty of space around. I turn my back slightly as I text “I know” back. Thank God for earbuds, although my obnoxiously loud music makes me feel rude. When the guy taps me on the shoulder, I take my left earbud out slowly without pausing the music, slightly embarrassed by the song blasting out of the tiny white piece, but at least it is a good song. I say, Excuse me?
May I bum a smoke? His clipped British accent barely registers on my one pounding ear.
With his black skull cap and worn leather jacket, he has grunge written all over him. I classify him in a two-second glance: an artsy type, maybe high. I dig into my  bag and hand him a cigarette. As I turn away again, I hear him ask softly, Lighter, dear? I sigh loudly, take the lighter out of my coat pocket, and give it to him. It is imperative to use the Arab girl rule of survival when faced with these situations: avoid eye contact at all costs.
I text Lamia: “This creep is sitting next to me and won’t leave.” And then, “Can’t even enjoy a smoke before boarding.” She replies, “You should quit. What did Omar say?”
I start to text something back as the song ends, and in the two second gap before the next begins, he asks, So where are you headed?
Now emboldened, I turn to look him directly in the face to show him this is not okay, and I freeze when I see him. My face flushes. The guy who was behind me in line talking on his cell, I wouldn’t have known him from the back but I now recognize his angular, boyish face, even recognize his voice as the same one floating out of my ear pods. He watches intently as I stammer, Um, New York. Hi.
He laughs and says, Hi, I’m Thom, giving me a wave.
Naya, nice to meet you. I’m a fan.
He smiles and says, I can hear that, I know it’s my music but is that even good for your ears?
All I can think to myself is keep cool, keep cool, keep cool. My phone beeps, it’s Lamia’s text “Tell me more.” I slip the buzzing phone, unattended, into my pocket.
He has already turned away, towards the gray airport hardscape as his right leg shakes. He stares at his cigarette, rotating it, studying it, not really smoking. I flick mine and the ashes drop to the pavement. The silence is awkward, but I’m not about to risk breaking it.
He finally says, You didn’t look too happy in there, is everything okay?
I answer, Yeah, just tired. I needed to get out of there.
I could see that. So what’s so upsetting? His t’s disappear completely.
I hesitate, not knowing quite what to answer, not knowing quite what he’d like to hear, and say, Well, I’ve had the flight from hell to get here and my ex is on my flight with his new girlfriend. So I haven’t had the greatest morning. With my fingers I air-quote girlfriend.
That sucks. His eyes crinkle as he suppresses a smile. His voice is low, lower than I imagined it to be. His words come out as mumbles and, along with the accent, I need to lean a bit towards him to capture the sounds coming out of his mouth. He doesn’t speak directly towards me but around me, almost to the point that I don’t know for sure if he is really speaking to me, or speaking to the air, or the ground, or the white-gray swirls of smoke that dance out of his cigarette.
I know, thanks for your pity. My day is getting a bit better though. I point to his ticket, New York as well?
Yeah, some meetings and stuff. He coughs again while facing the ground.
You don’t smoke do you?
Is it that obvious?
Yeah. It is.
Well, not cigarettes at least, I haven’t for a long time. They’re bad for you! We both laugh.
I wouldn’t know about smoking anything else. Sorry I cut the line. Or queue, as you say. I feel my insides cringe. If Lamia was with me, she would have known how to make an impression. I try to conjure up her aloof nature, wishing she could text me through this.
No worries, no worries. He accentuates the r’s, rolling them a bit harder, faking an American accent. I enjoyed the wait, it was entertaining.
Really?
I don’t usually see a girl who looks like you, blasting Radiohead into her head, trying to talk her way to a free upgrade.
I wasn’t aware there was a specific Radiohead stereotype, I respond quickly, trying to hide that I’m flattered he’s noticed me. Then I realize I probably haven’t been an impressive sight, so I defend myself, I wasn’t trying to scam the system, I was just trying to get back at my boyfriend. Make him uncomfortable by sitting nearby.
By stalking him, right?
Like pretending to smoke so you can talk to a girl?
He laughs. His leg is shaking just slightly now. He’s on the extreme side of thin, like the goth guys in my class, the ones who make your thighs look huge no matter how thin you are. I try to discreetly suck myself in to make my body smaller.
We sit side by side, in silence, smoking.  The wind begins to blow harder and I zip up my jacket higher.
Wind is my favorite weather, he says, looking straight ahead, speaking more to the atmosphere than me.
Wind is not a weather.
Really? Then what is it?
It’s the air swirling around, I say slowly. The expression of weather. Really, it’s beyond weather.
He turns to face me and I am able to see his eyes, which are much bluer in person. I know he has a lazy eye, but looking at him directly, I can’t tell which one it is. He seems to contemplate what I just said, or maybe he wants to get the hell out of an awkward situation. He leans back, breaking the gaze. He grinds the cigarette on the side of the concrete ashtray.
Feeling like I’ve definitely blown it, I’m mentally preparing to say goodbye when he turns to me and asks, Are you still interested in making your flight? Or do you just want to hang out here and think about the weather? Or non-weather, as you put it? He stands and extends his arm to me.
I look up at him first to make sure he is not being sarcastic. He holds the pose, so I stand and place my arm in his, and ask, Do you do this with all your fans? I can’t believe you have such a bad reputation.
Rumors, dear, all rumors.
Well, you are quite the gentleman. I shiver a little.
Are you okay?
Yes, just cold and nervous. Flying makes me nervous, especially now. You know taking off and landing, passing through security.
He winks at me: Nice, sounds familiar. Let’s get you inside then.
He leads me to the entrance and I hide a smile behind my scarf. For the first time in thirty-six hours I’m happy I’m wearing it. And although I’m engulfed in gray concrete and clouds, shrouded in black fabric, I feel a lightness that I haven’t felt in months.

The double doors slide open like a sharp breath and clip closed behind us. Doors that swallow you whole.

** Accidents Waiting to Happen is an excerpt from a novel-in-progress: It Girl, Rag Doll. The excerpt was first published in Critical Muslim.

The post Accidents Waiting to Happen (fiction) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

What if we declared ourselves perpetual refugees in solidarity with all refugees needing safe human harbor from violence and domination and injustice and inequality? …We are all refugees horribly displaced from a benign and welcoming community. And the question is: Can we soon enough create the asylum our lives will certainly wither without?

—June Jordan, “We Are All Refugees”

At the height of the Second Intifada (also known as the Al-Aqsa Intifada) which began in September 2000, a 23 year-old white American student from Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington, arrived in Gaza to initiate a sister-cities project between Olympia and Rafah, a city in southern Gaza where the vast majority of the population is comprised of Palestinian refugees. As an active volunteer for the International Solidarity Movement (ISM), a nonviolent organization dedicated to the Palestinian cause, she was particularly engaged in protests against the demolition of Palestinian homes by the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). It was during one of these protests, on March 16, 2003, less than two months after her arrival, that Rachel Corrie was murdered—run over twice, crushed to death by an IDF armored bulldozer on its way to demolish another Palestinian home.[1]

Three days after Rachel Corrie’s murder, Palestinian American social activist Suheir Hammad’s poem “On the Brink of…” was circulated on the internet. Frustrated by the violence against Palestinians in general, and against Rachel Corrie in particular, Hammad writes, “the murder of this white/girl from Olympia Washington has/my heart breaking and my blood faint./Something like ten Palestinians have been killed since/yesterday, when a Caterpillar bulldozer driven/by a man demolished the home that was her body.”[2] While the conflation of home and body is a significant motif that appears throughout Hammad’s work, that conflation becomes especially complicated in the case of Rachel Corrie who, despite the “privilege” (to use Corrie’s own words) of her race and nationality, was considered Palestinian in the weeks leading up to, and the months and years following, the tragedy. Not only did Palestinian leader Yasser Arafat proclaim her a “daughter of Palestine,” even naming a street in the West Bank city of Ramallah after her, but in her journals Corrie had professed her love for the Palestinian people and had identified herself with them, as did the people of Rafah who spray-painted “Rachel has Palestinian blood” across city walls after her murder.[3] And, in response to the vehement criticism of Corrie’s active solidarity with the Palestinian people, Evergreen professor Therese Saliba remembers her futile attempt to comfort a troubled colleague by explaining that Corrie had “‘become Palestinian, and she will be attacked in the same way the Palestinians have always been attacked and their struggle discredited. She will be called a terrorist or a terrorist sympathizer.’”[4]

Saliba’s sentiment that Corrie had “become Palestinian” borrows from the Caribbean American poet June Jordan’s “Moving Towards Home,” published in 1985 in response to the 1982 massacres at Sabra and Shatila, in which Jordan proclaims: “I was born a Black woman/and now/I am become Palestinian/against the relentless laughter of evil/…/It is time to make our way home.”[5]^,[6] This concept that Jordan lyrically explores—of being “born” a certain identity and “becoming” another by way of establishing solidarities built on an inclusive morality, shared social ethics, mutual respect, and shared experiences with (or shared understandings of) human struggle—was exemplified and embodied by Rachel Corrie, whose “born” identity as a white American woman was complicated and expanded, even transformed, by her love for the Palestinian people and her fight for justice on their behalf (both of which would ultimately cost her her life).[7] It is Jordan’s powerful declaration of being (re)born a Black Palestinian woman that would not only inspire Hammad’s debut poetry collection, Born Palestinian, Born Black (first published in 1996, expanded and reissued in 2010), but would also become both a persistent concern and a consistent theme throughout much if not all of Hammad’s works. In her poetry, Hammad negates and negotiates varying identities in order to engage with and connect the various struggles of (primarily, though not exclusively, colored) peoples across the world. For Hammad, such identification is facilitated through a global (and globalized) sense of self coupled with collective self-love, in which we identify ourselves within others (and them within us) in order to form a global alliance based on shared affective love. Thus, by resituating her own difference within that of various marginalized communities in the U.S. and abroad, Hammad’s poetry redefines individual identity as a cultural collective built upon a solidarity of shared marginalization in the face of global oppressions, through which “patriotism” transcends nation, and the love of self is (re)located in—and conflated with—a universal love for others.

Universal patriotism (particularly in Hammad’s poetry) is synonymous with what Kwame Anthony Appiah interchangeably calls “global citizenship” or “cosmopolitan patriotism.”[8] This way of seeing, living, and being in the world is founded on the sentiment that if the whole universe is our “home,” then as “citizens” we have a responsibility to nurture it—to concern ourselves with the cultures and politics of all parts of our “home,” which just so happens to be the “home” of others as well. For Appiah, difference does not undermine, threaten, nor conflict with this all-embracing conception of home; rather, difference is a part of “home” and is precisely what makes “home” both tangible and malleable. And because home is figured (as it most often is) within kinship and country, cosmopolitan patriots can be considered “true patriots” because they “hold the state and the community within which they live to certain [moral] standards,” understanding that while “it is all very well to argue for, fight for, liberalism in one country—your own,” it is even more imperative to extend that fight to include those outside of our countries and selves, since our very own rights “matter as human rights … only if the rights of foreign humans matter, too.”[9] Thus Appiah not only reconciles traditional views of patriotism with his philosophy of cosmopolitanism, but also expands the definition of patriotism beyond national borders, thereby enabling it to accommodate a changing world and worldview. Although the essence of patriotism has long been argued to consist of “the responsibilities as well as the privileges of citizenship,” Appiah argues that patriotism is more importantly a feeling of connection:

Patriotism is about what the nineteenth-century Liberian scholar-diplomat Edward Blyden once so memorably called “the poetry of politics,” which is the feeling of “people with whom we are connected.” It is the connection and the sentiment that matter, and there is no reason to suppose that everybody in this complex, ever-mutating world will find their affinities and their passions focused on a single place.[10]

Since we are all connected, so to speak, and especially since that connection is not a single, mutually exclusive stream flowing to and from a single place, then there is no reason that cosmopolitanism and patriotism cannot be merged into a collective vision for the betterment of humanity: “We cosmopolitans can be patriots, loving our homelands (not only the states where we were born but the states where we grew up and the states where we live); our loyalty to humankind—so vast, so abstract, a unity—does not deprive us of the capacity to care for lives nearer by.”[11] Rather than conflict, these loyalties to “lives nearer by” and to all of humankind appear to be interrelated, mirroring the interrelatedness of peoples across the world while working towards bridging the gaps between “here” and “there,” “us” and “them,” “our” struggles and dreams and “their” struggles and dreams.[12]

The construction of such bridges among peoples and across cultures is precisely what concerns Hammad, and to which her poetry is intensely committed. Her literary gesturing towards universal self-identification is often connected with an affirmation of collective marginalization, demonstrated here for instance by her contemplation of the “many usages of the word ‘Black’”:

• Black   like the coal diamonds are birthed from
• like the dark matter of the universe
• like the Black September massacre of Palestinians
• the Arabic expression “to blacken your face”
• meaning to shame.

• Black   like the opposite of white
• the other
• Indians in England, Africans in America,
• Algerians in France and Palestinians in Israel
• the shvartza labor of cleaning toilets and
• picking garbage

• Black   like the genius of Stevie, Zora and Abdel-Haleem
• relative purity
• like the face of God
• the face of your grandmother[13]

The first group of usages signifies the negative connotations of “blackness”: the blackness of coal that “births” precious gems but is not a precious gem itself; the all-encompassing, sublime blackness of the unknown or the unfamiliar (“dark matter of the universe”); the blackness of death (“Black September,” which refers to the events of September 1970, in which King Hussein of Jordan unleashed a brutal military campaign against the Palestine Liberation Organization based in Amman, resulting in the slaughter of thousands of Palestinians); and the idiomatic blackness of shame. The second group places blackness within a racial context and furthermore connects “blacks” (here a metonym for marginalized peoples) and black struggles across the world, from the U.S., to Europe, to Israel. It is not until the final category that Hammad reclaims blackness, and posits it in an alternative way that is righteous and sacred (the “relative purity” of blackness); constructive and inspiring, associated with creation instead of death (referring not only to the face of the Creator, but also to the artistic “genius” of black “creators,” such as Stevie Wonder, Zora Neale Hurston, and the influential Egyptian singer from the 1950’s and 60’s, Abdel-Haleem Hafez); and deeply personal and relational (the black “face of your grandmother”). Hammad’s second and third definitions of blackness as both connective and empowering are a significant theme in her writings, and lay the groundwork for much of her poetry.

Collectively, Hammad’s poems explore the concepts (or, rather, the acts) of both self-definition and the continual redefinition of that self. As the poet herself makes clear, “we need to own our definitions and live by them. We need not be afraid to adapt or change them when necessary. Borders are manmade, and I refuse to respect them unless I have a say in their formation.”[14] These manmade borders—between persons, peoples, nations, cultures, movements—are precisely what Hammad undermines and transcends with the formal and thematic diversity of her poetic voice, as Siréne Harb notes:

Hammad exploits the flexible potential of borders and stresses the significance of discovering embryonic entities. Such entities allow her to reorganize cultural practices so as to creatively juggle/redefine cultural, linguistic, and stylistic norms. For this poet, thus, the construction of identity depends on acts of adaptation and appropriation … shaping ways in which she situates herself in discursive spaces and negotiates the heterogeneousness of narrative, social and historical borders.[15]

Hammad’s “acts of adaptation and appropriation” and the “heterogeneousness of narrative, social and historical borders” are readily apparent in the poem “taxi,” in which Hammad connects the plight of the people in the Palestinian Territories with that of African Americans in the U.S. Separated into three sections, the first section, addressed to the self-proclaimed “urban warrior” and “street soldier,” trivializes and scolds the ghetto mentality for which Salman Rushdie offers one of the better, more succinct definitions: “The adoption of a ghetto mentality [is] to forget that there is world beyond the community to which we belong, to confine ourselves within narrowly defined cultural frontiers.”[16] Hammad’s criticism of those in the African American community whose understanding of struggle is limited to “not gettin taxis and little white ladies/claspin purses” necessitates a definitional expansion of “struggle” in all its forms and faces, and what it means for marginalized peoples in other parts of world, particularly in the Territories.[17]

This is precisely the subject of the second section, in which Hammad recounts the nightmarish reality of “refugee camps that make you long for/the projects …/this aint no/boy scout trip this is the real deal hell/on earth what it’s about.”[18] It is not until the third section that Hammad connects both worlds, both realities, in her call for a more all-encompassing understanding of struggle from which transnational solidarity can be built:

• conscious comrade
• there’s a place uglier than uptown’s slum
• where the people are just as beautiful
• strugglin sister
• there’s a debke[19] beat funky as p.e.’s riff
• signalin revolution liberation and freedom

• so when we’re vibin on the pale
• evil of welfare and crack          know i’m
• across the street and across the sea      so when
• we’re combatin cops and prisons          know there are prisons
• like ansar iii[20]   nazis wouldn’t touch     pigs wouldn’t visit
• so when we read baraka and listen to malcolm
• let’s read darwish and keep on
• listenin to malcolm

• so when you call me sista
• ask after our family
• this shit is about more
• …
• it’s bigger than
• our hoods and our heads
• it aint all about this poem
• and it aint all about
• taxis
• and little white women[21]

Here, the urban warrior/street soldier has been replaced by “conscious comrade” and “strugglin sister” as Hammad urges the African American community to extend its own struggle to include that of Palestinians on the other side of the world, who similarly struggle against poverty and crimes of the State, denoted by the “pale evil of welfare” and “cops and prisons.” She associates Palestinian Debke with one of the most influential American hip-hop groups, Public Enemy, to bridge the gap between one black pride revolution and another. Hammad’s imperative, that “when you call me sista/ask after our family” serves to remind us, as Michelle Hartman notes, that “merely local or parochial concerns of one community cannot be the main or only focus of social change. Developing an expanded sense of community must be more than simply calling someone ‘sister’ but show a deeper level of respect by asking about the larger family and community to which this person is tied.”[22] Thus, when Hammad proposes that “when we read baraka and listen to malcolm/let’s read darwish and keep on/listenin to malcolm,” she is gesturing towards and broadening a collective sense of responsibility, for “closed universities and open prisons/curfews and house demolitions/…/…the faces of mournin mothers/losin more sons to american tax dollars” that fund the Israeli military (directly) responsible for such destruction of human life and livelihood.[23] In this way, the references to Amiri Baraka, Malcolm X, and Mahmoud Darwish, like those to Debke and Public Enemy, serve “to bridge, through the juggling of a number of cultural notions, different types of struggle for social justice.”[24] As Carol Fadda-Conrey explains, the positioning of diverse cultural and creative icons in Hammad’s work, evidenced by poems like “taxi,” is a reflection of the poet’s own diverse origins:

[Hammad’s] poetry mirrors the intermixture of influences in Hammad’s life, including Palestinian displacement, connections to African American and Puerto Rican cultures that Hammad was exposed to while growing up in Brooklyn, and the various forms of violence she has experienced and been a witness to, manifested, for example, through the Arab-Israeli conflict, as well as through the harsh circumstances surrounding urban youth culture in New York and the disenfranchisement of peoples of color all around the world.[25]

Hammad’s linking of peoples across the world via their struggles against oppression and marginalization foreground what Chela Sandoval and Keith Feldman call, respectively, “oppositional consciousness” and “interracial insurgency,” both of which are explicitly at work in Hammad’s poetry in general and in “taxi” in particular, where Hammad actively attempts to instill a camaraderie—a global patriotism—constructed from a fragmented sense of self that is located in multiple places, at multiple times, amongst multiple peoples.

It is precisely this collective sense of self that will enable both the individual and the group(s) to which she belongs to transcend nationality and reach beyond skin color in order to combat social injustices and sufferings from one end of the globe to the other, as Feldman similarly argues:

If one is to incorporate the multiple fractures of identity politics into the composition of self, then one must also address the political concerns of those individuals living beyond the political borders of the United States from whence the cultural elements have originated, the multiple heritages that have imbued the urban site with its complex of cultural forms. In this way, [Hammad] links ghetto with ghetto and forwards a political act both across the street of the urban metropolis and across the sea in the material locale of her national heritage.[26]

Because the “self” is composed of multiple fragments both within and without, to identify the “self” with others (or as “other”) necessarily aligns the concerns of that self with those outside of it. For Hammad, it is (and paradoxically so) human difference which connects and empowers us, as Trinh Minh-ha had profoundly asserted in her seminal essay exploring the interlocking identities of postcolonial women: “Otherness becomes empowerment, critical difference when it is not given but recreated.”[27] Embodying otherness as a way of being and employing difference as a means of realizing that “political and social commitment to justice depends on a broader vision of home/self” comprises Hammad’s poetic vision of the universal patriot, enlisted in a collective battle against various injustices and oppressions that, despite specificity (of geographic location, of oppressive authority, of victimization) affects us all.[28] As Hammad reminds us, “to find ourselves we hold up a mirror to the worlds we all inhabit,” and it is these worlds with which we relate and for which we fight.[29]

The poem “manifest destiny” not only exemplifies the broader (re)vision of home/self, but also the connective potential of multiplying identities and the power of difference that unifies diversity. In an interview by Marcy Jane Knopf-Newman, Hammad speaks of her multiple identities and identifications, shaped by her immigrant experience and her father’s insistence on her “difference”:

“I didn’t grow up Arab American—what the fuck is Arab American? I grew up Palestinian and Brooklyn, really specifically. And my father’s like you’re not this, you’re not that. And then I’d meet other Palestinians and he’d be like, yeah, but you’re not like them either. You know, because it was a very specific immigrant experience at a very specific time, and I didn’t relate to the problems that were being written about. I didn’t have a half-white parent or a white parent. I didn’t have the sense of cultural clash in my body. I had it outside of my body. In my body I felt like, I look like everyone else I grew up with—whether they were Puerto Rican or Italian or light-skinned black people.”[30]

The self-described similarity of Hammad’s physical appearance to the “Puerto Rican or Italian or light-skinned black people” with whom she grew up complicates notions of race as it relates to Arab and Arab Americans.[31] But rather than pose an obstacle, for Hammad this complication provides the perfect site for negotiating, adapting, and appropriating both individual and socio-cultural identities. This is especially evident in “manifest destiny,” in which an intimate dinner scene with a group of friends sets the stage for Hammad’s exploration of interior and exteriors, as they relate to questions of identity, cultural expectation, and poetry. The poem begins with a collective “we four/sitting nursing/plates of rice and beans in a Cuban diner/we all should have been other people/with other people.”[32] The imperative “should” suggests that such a gathering, at least from the outside, is far from typical, and it is this unlikely friendship among a diverse group of people sharing a meal which undermines the alleged tension between outer and inner, between what should be and what is. The individual descriptions of each person begin with who she may appear to be, and who she actually is: “one/who should’ve been a neo-nazi aryan baby breeder/a machete wielding man-hating dyke/was a lover of both men and women girl of riot and a poet” while “another/who should’ve been a witness of jehovah knocking down doors/or a gyrating video hoochie/was a scholar of african glory lover of knowledge and a poet.”[33] The repetition of “and a poet” ending each description functions to reinforce not only the common ground uniting them all, despite (or, perhaps, because of) their differences, but also the power of poetry to unite people across borders and barriers.

Hammad ends the poem with an affirmation of not only how outer appearances run counter to inner selves (which, in turn, run counter to cultural expectations), but also of how feelings of loss can be a connective force, on a level that is personal and intimate: “missing my family/who couldn’t understand/we four all missing family who wouldn’t understand/creating a family/we struggling to understand/we were where we needed to be/we are who we have to be.”[34] As Feldman notes:

The family unit is renarrated here to contend with the notion of family as the social receptacle of an identity based on genetic descent; rather, it is reconceived in the scene of cultural and political exchange. Heritage is a component of identity here that becomes malleable and contingent on the social construction of wider community, a community situated, in this case, within a transnational urban setting.[35]

For Hammad, this type of unity and community is essential—foundational—to establishing a collective self-identity based on her configuration of home and self, and the conflation of that home/self with other homes/selves, from which a “transnational mobilization of diasporic communities in ghettoized spaces” is made possible.[36] Hammad’s transnational autobiographical identification, which “plac[es] the autobiographical self in solidarity with a network of diasporic populations,” becomes a sociopolitical outlet through which traditional, essentialist, or isolationist understandings of identity are undermined and replaced by a more inclusive, transnational, trans-racial redefinition of home/self.[37] To return to Feldman’s reading of Hammad’s poem:

Hammad locates home in the production of a future through manifold resources of a culture forged in a transnational context and through transnational solidarities. As a community surviving displacement, exile, and diaspora, as Palestinian, as Arab, as Arab American, as a community forged through material, political, and cultural connections with others who survive the material effects of the diaspora, Hammad locates the potentiality for the building of a new home in which members of those ‘othered’ communities—like herself—might speak their own life experiences….[38]

Similarly, Harb argues that Hammad’s relocation of home and her re-situation of self within that home, in all its multiple locations, move towards a “universalism which acknowledges the importance of gendered and ethnic specificities, while at the same time stressing the commonalities and zones of intersection among different groups. As such, the universal is redefined as a form of political awareness of the workings of power and systems.”[39] From this redefined universalism—and re-imagined universe—comes the formation of a collective self, comprised of multiple (and multiplying) identities, and the practice of love towards that self and the others in which it is located, enacted through (and even synonymous with) responsibility.

The association of love (of self and others) with personal and social responsibility is at the heart of Hammad’s (seemingly) romantic “we spent the fourth of july in bed.” Here, the act of lovemaking is interrupted by images of violence and thoughts of suffering—realities that invade and pervade even the most intimate moments, and that continuously haunt the poet/lover and pollute her memory. After an extensive and intensely morbid chronicle of various gruesome sufferings in the world, from the “exploding legs” of Iraqi girls and “ants crawl[ing] out of somali eyes” to the “puerto rican women” and “young philipinas” who “go blind constructing computer discs/poems like this are saved on,” the troubled poet/lover pauses for a moment as she returns to the lusty scene of the erotic encounter: “yeah the smell of suffer/lingers even now/lover as we lay/in amazement and/if baby as you say/my skin is the color of sun/warmed sand then you’re/my moonless night/and we the beach/wet and tidal all that/good shhhh wet.”[40] This sensual serenity is then interrupted, once again, by images of violence, as the poet/lover’s mind returns to the global scenes of the crime:

• yet
• as we lay
• shrapnel awakens pain on
• an island of paraplegics
• courtesy of the 80s gun craze
• to our generation violence
• isn’t a phase it’s the day to day

• and though my head is filled
• with your sweetness now
• this same head knows
• nagasaki girls picked maggots out of stomach sores with chopsticks
• and hiroshima mothers rocked headless babies to sleep
• this head knows
• phalestini[41] youth maimed absorbing rubber bullets
• homes demolished        trees uprooted     roots dispersed[42]

The shift to and from the bedroom and the world outside, between the dreamlike sensuality of post-coital bliss and the nightmarish reality of human suffering, serves to bridge the spatial gaps between the “here” and the “there,” lending a sense of urgency to the poet/lover’s need to end these sufferings. Like in “first writing since,” written in the days following 9/11, Hammad urgently reminds us that the “there” is right here.[43] Her internalization of the “outside world” connects the lovers to the world that is outside of them (at least physically, anyway) and for which they are responsible. Though at the heart of “first writing since,” the collapsing of spatio-temporal binaries and the active refusal to subscribe to the political (meaning imperial) binary of life or death—of “with us” or “against us”—through personal and social responsibility indeed has its roots in this haunting love poem. “‘It’s this idea that we are not responsible for those we push aside,’” that Hammad’s poetry contests, as the poet herself explains, “‘I do believe in accountability on an individual level, but that can only exist legitimately within societies where we hold each other accountable as well.’”[44] Thus, the role of accountability not only bridges the gap between “here” and “there,” inside and outside, but also between self and other—between the individual and the social.

If human suffering is foreground by human intimacy, then individual and social accountability are foreground by human suffering. In “we spent the fourth of july in bed,” eroticism is offset by horror while the illusion of privacy, of the inner self / outer world binary, is shattered:

• this same head with
• all them love songs
• and husky whispers knows
• our moans come with a history
• deeper than our groins     our
• groans marry a story older
• than this lust

• as we lay          and love
• our touch is not free it comes with memories
• and the reality that even now
• food is a luxury
• viruses free
• …
• we baby
• look into our brownness to
• see those who’ve gone without
• knowing this     comfort of entangled legs
• foreheads of sweat     heart beats of love and sex

• our sighs indeed heavy with
• history     destiny     cum     and responsibility
• even now         in this heat
• on this futon
• we are not alone[45]

Here, love is not confined to romance, between a pair of lovers, in a room. Rather, the concept of love is broadened to include the whole world, all of humanity:

The boundaries of the marginalized collective are extended to encompass third world, predominantly female, victims of racial and imperial oppression. Here again, the connecting “we” supersedes the collective Arab American identity, linking the plights of Iraqi, Malaysian, Filipina, Puerto Rican, Yemeni, and Palestinian girls, women, and youth, as well as women from Nagasaki and Hiroshima, thus creating a solid unity out of their suffering, [that] unifies diversity.[46]

If the self is a collective formation, then it necessarily follows that the love of self, and the responsibility that love entails, exceeds the individual and extends to the community and, even further, to the world. In this way, the intimate “sighs” of the lovers are “indeed heavy with/history…and responsibility” for that which is “outside” of them. Thus, Hammad revisits the inside(r) / outside(r) binary she began exploring in “manifest destiny,” as well as the here / there binary she had begun to challenge in “taxi,” and incorporates collective responsibility as the driving force behind Sandoval’s oppositional consciousness and Feldman’s interracial insurgency. It is useful here to return to Minh-ha’s essay about interlocking identities among marginalized peoples, particularly women, in which she also addresses difference and spatial binaries, arguing that “differences do not only exist between outsider and insider—two entities. They are also at work within the outsider herself or the insider, herself—a single entity. She who knows she cannot speak of them without speaking of herself, of history without involving her story, also knows that she cannot make a gesture without activating the to and fro movement of life.”[47] As Hammad demonstrates in this poem, there can be no peace, not even in the privacy of one’s bedroom or home (or “self”), when the world is at war, with poverty, disease, injustice, violence, and other residual effects of imperialism: “even as we lay in/all this good feeling/people lay in dirt vomit shit and blood/and I gotta tell you/that my sincere love for real/is for my peeps my family humanity/love for real for real freedom/well fed human dignity for sisters and their lovers/…/there aint enough good feeling/to push the pain and awareness out.”[48] It is fitting, then, that on the day of American Independence, the poet/lover realizes and asserts that the most patriotic thing to do is to celebrate interdependence, by setting out to correct the troubles of the world for which she is personally and socially responsible: “we gotta get up soon/come on now baby/we got work to do.”[49]

Hammad demonstrates that universal patriotism, facilitated by universal love, begins with an awareness of pain as universal—a recognition that can link people to people, struggle to struggle, and “over here” to “over there.” This recalls Appiah’s imperative that it is also patriotic—cosmopolitically patriotic, that is—to concern ourselves with and defend the rights of others “over there” in addition to our own “right here”:

We should, in short, as cosmopolitans, defend the rights of others to live in democratic states, with rich possibilities of association within and across their borders; states of which they can be patriotic citizens. And, as cosmopolitans, we can claim that right for ourselves. … [T]he freedom to create oneself—the freedom that liberalism celebrates—requires a range of socially transmitted options from which to invent what we have come to call our identities … giv[ing] us a language in which to think about these identities and with which we may shape new ones.[50]

Through the construction and contemplation of a multitude of identities, Hammad is able to subsequently engage in the linking of global struggles as reenacted in “letter to anthony (critical resistance),” in which Hammad connects the issue of prison reform in the United States to both the Palestinian struggle for legitimacy and justice and the global sex trade. In doing so, the poem lends itself to a contemplation of the concept of criminality as a residual effect of imperialism’s oppressive agendas, executed through economic exploitation of the poor (and often colored), the subjugation of women, and the suppression of “minority” voices. In the second section of the poem Hammad issues a confession, an admission of her own guilt: “i have always loved criminals/i tell people who try to shame/me into silence.”[51] As the poem continues, the poet conflates the criminal with “10/years to go nowhere how much deeper/you going to get until a system based/on money deems you rehabilitated” with the Palestinians, deemed “criminals” by a system (Israel) built on their forced absence and perpetual incarceration in refugee camps:

• i have always loved
• criminals and not only the thugged
• out bravado of rap videos and champagne
• popping hustlers but my father
• born an arab boy
• on the forced way out
• of his homeland his mother exiled
• and pregnant gave birth in a camp

• the world pointed and said
• palestinians do not exist palestinians
• are roaches palestinians are two legged dogs
• and israel built jails and weapons and
• a history based on the absence of a people
• israel made itself holy and chosen
• and my existence a crime.

• so i have always loved criminals
• it is a love of self
• and i will not cut off any part of
• me and place it behind fences and bars
• and the fake ass belief
• that there is a difference between
• the inside and the outside

• there is no outside anywhere
• anymore just where we are and
• what we do while we are here[52]

In “letter to anthony,” prison becomes a symbol of forced separation, the embodiment of the inside / outside, here / there binary erected and enforced by hegemonic power structures and their exclusionary politics. Hammad associates Anthony, the “criminal” sitting in an American prison and to whom she is writing, with her father and, by extension, her people: Palestinians whose very existence has been criminalized by Zionism’s agendas. Furthermore, she equates her love of criminals with a love of self—that is, her own “criminality,” namely her Palestinian heritage. Her refusal to abide by the “fake ass belief/that there is a difference between the inside and the outside,” and her conclusion that “there is no outside anywhere/anymore,” recalls her internalization of the external that was at the heart of the poem, “we spent the fourth of july in bed.” The poem’s ending is indeed a powerful affirmation of humanity—and the global patriot’s promise to continue to defend the rights of others everywhere—as well as a reassurance to Anthony in the American prison and to Nazim in the Palestinian refugee camp that there are people, like the poet herself, who erase the lines between inside and outside, bridge the gap between the here and the there.

This is essentially how Hammad connects struggle to struggle across the world and resists on behalf of those who are withheld and withdrawn by structures more powerful than they:

• and there
• are people anthony who make a connection
• between you puerto rican rhyme slayer beautiful man and
• young girls twisted into sex work and these
• people nazim they are working to stop prisons
• from being economically beneficial to depressed
• communities and these people
• bronx bomber they imagine a world
• where money can’t be made off the hurt
• of the young the poor the colored the
• sexualized the different
• …
• they believe human
• beings can never be reduced
• to numbers not in concentration
• camps or reservations not in
• refugee camps not in schools
• and not in jails
• …
• stay well
• and safe
• resist
• and love
• suheir[53]

In “letter to anthony,” Hammad attributes incarceration to invisibility, and invisibility to the hegemonic campaign against the coalitions of difference—like the ones Hammad is constructing in her poetry—that threaten that hegemony. As Minh-ha reminds us:

Difference remains within the boundary of that which distinguishes one identity from another. This means that at the heart X must be X, Y must be Y and X cannot be Y. Those running around yelling X is not Y and X can be Y, usually land in a hospital, a rehabilitation center, a concentration camp, or a reservation.[54]

For Hammad, love, and the alliances born of love, serves not only to bridge disparate struggles and identities across many fronts, but also to connect the traumatic experiences that can otherwise isolate the individual and jeopardize the collective self-love meant to empower them. Collective self-love and the interracial insurgency it motivates (or necessitates, rather) is at the center of “open poem to those who rather we not read…or breathe.” Again, Hammad begins with a collective “we” and an affirmation of a shared interracial, presumably (though not exclusively) third world alliance: “we children of children exiled from homelands/descendants of immigrants denied jobs and toilets/carry continents in our eyes/survivors of the middle passage/we stand/and demand recognition of our humanity.”[55] The opening of “open poem” testifies to “a collective past fraught with subjugation and discrimination (extending to the present)” and reaffirms that Hammad’s “own Palestinian history of exile cannot be disengaged from the larger history of imperialism and colonialism that scatter peoples across the world and sever them from their homelands, whether they are exiles, immigrants, or descendents of slave-trade victims.”[56]

Thus Hammad reconceptualizes “third world,” broadening its scope to include the plights of those who are marginalized in the first world, corresponding to Chandra Talpade Mohanty’s de-limiting description of “third world” as being “defined through geographical location as well as particular sociohistorical conjectures … thus incorporat[ing] so-called minority peoples or people of color in [first world nations like] the U.S.A.”[57] Such a revision of the “third world” as an “imagined community of … oppositional struggles … is useful because it leads us away from essentialist notions of third world feminist struggles, suggesting political rather than biological or cultural bases for alliance.”[58] This movement away from essentialism and exclusion in an effort to unify and mobilize diversity against hegemonic and hierarchical power structures is precisely what is at work in “open poem,” where Hammad “locates her individuality within communal concerns and struggles, thus explicitly situating the poetic ‘I’ within a ‘we’ … represent[ing] a united but multiple-colored voice denouncing American white hegemony,” and in doing so redraws the maps of struggles.[59] As Harb similarly notes, “Hammad accomplishes a critique of power through the rearrangement of traditional geographies and seemingly unrelated spaces. In this process, she uses historical experience rather than geographic location as the frame of reference for the redrawing of maps of struggle against a number of oppressive practices.”[60] This is evident in the poem’s powerful reclamation of humanity through a declaration of resistance, in which “brown-eyed girls clash with governments of war” in their determination to “think, analyze, fight back, and be human beings”:

•              we
• witness and demand a return to humanity

• we        braid resistance through our hair
•              pierce justice through our ears
•              tattoo freedom onto our breasts

• the bluesy souls of brown-eyed girls
• clash with blood on the pale hands of
• governments of war
• … sent on a mission to set back
• our strength     power     love

• we be political prisoners walking round semi-free
• our very breath is a threat
• to those who rather we not read
• and think         analyze                        watch out         and fight back
• and be human beings the way we need to be[61]

Thus, the transnational poetic geographies that Hammad establishes set the stage for a collective resistance against the structures of power intent on “setting back,” meaning marginalizing, various “semi-free” peoples determined to claim full freedom through solidarities built on the power of love. In this way, the cartographies of struggle are themselves composites, much like identity and the “self” it projects, to which Marco Villalobos attests:

Hammad has drawn a map full of dots we still take pleasure in connecting. …[She] reminds us the distance between millenary African Cities and a Palestinian-Israeli conflict, the distance between Cairo and Jerusalem, is only 265 miles—closer than Los Angeles to San Francisco; closer than Manhattan to Washington, D.C.; that Jordan is only set apart from the African continent by the Sinai Peninsula; that the Red Sea doesn’t make so much of a difference in this respect, since it is crossed by the dust of footprints and the wet of tears, since without the wind’s help ululation reaches from one side of the Suez to the other.[62]

This linking of struggles—and securing one’s own link to a variety of peoples through shared concern for and participation in those struggles—is reenacted throughout Hammad’s poetry, and it is through her poetry that she revisits the sites of struggle to engage with the multicolored voices and multiple narratives of oppression, on all levels and at all distances.

By envisioning identity as flexible, relational, and polycentric, Hammad is able to transcend distance and employ disparity as a battle tactic in the fight against hegemonic structures of power and their oppressive practices. Such intercommunalism, or multicultural polycentrism, according to Ella Shohat and Robert Stam, is not only “a more substantive and reciprocal approach” but also a “profound restructuring and reconceptualization of the power relations between cultural communities” which produces “informed affiliation on the basis of shared social desires and identification.”[63] This is very much the basis of Hammad’s universal (or cosmopolitan) patriotism, designed to counter what Steven Salaita calls, “U.S. imperative patriotism,” which “assumes (or demands) that dissent in matters of governance and foreign affairs is unpatriotic and therefore unsavory. It is drawn from a longstanding sensibility that unconformity to whatever at the time is considered to be ‘the national interest’ is unpatriotic.”[64] Hammad’s poetry not only confronts this notion, but proposes an alternate form of “patriotism” that aligns itself with Appiah’s emphases on multilocal connections amidst an increasingly global “feeling” of interconnectedness. It is this redefinition of patriotism that links tragedies across disparate geographical locations so that struggle is no longer figured in terms of binaries, such as “them” and “us.” And as such, each individual becomes responsible for the struggles of others and, by extension, all communities become subject to answer for the ills of the world.

This belief in both a collective responsibility and in a more global(ized) form of patriotism are unsurprisingly at odds with governing bodies intent on maintaining, militarizing, and exploiting borders and boundaries. This tension is most evident in Hammad’s poem “Beyond Words,” written between 2003 and 2004 as chaos was unfolding around—engulfing—the world: “the axis of evil” was cemented into American political rhetoric; Saddam Hussein had fallen; the United States was in the midst of war with both Iraq and Afghanistan; sexual violence in the Congo was the most rampant in the world; and just as news broke about the horrors at Abu Ghraib, the town of Rafah on the Gaza Strip (where Rachel Corrie had been killed) was nearly destroyed by the IDF, determined to quell the Second Intifada. The poet, who had found—or created, rather—a “home” in poetry, who sought refuge in language, was now at a loss for words:[65] “Where has my language gone?/The poet searches for words to wrap around these times/Make them sense Make them pretty Make them useful/…/Desperate for words I can write/…/Language has failed me.”[66] Although Hammad had constructed entire bodies of work upon the premise of a collective struggle against various forms of global oppression, that premise was now under threaten, once again, of being delegitimized by the vocabulary of separation, the mentality of isolation, and the politics of exclusion: “I am told over and over/Iraq is not Palestine/Kabul is not New York/…/Haiti is not Chechnya/Chiapas is not East L.A./Iraq is not Palestine/Over and over I am told/…/No connections here/No illuminated parallels/Two different histories and two different peoples/Make no links/Do not confuse the issues/Only confuse the people.”[67] Hammad finds herself in limbo, and though her sense of responsibility is immense, it is, ironically, the interconnectedness of conflict that leaves her struggling with paradoxical decisions: “How fucked up is it that I have to choose between ending/One occupation or another?/Partition my time and portion my information/…/[I] am taking too much on Too much in/I find nowhere to rest this responsibility/If I say nothing I am complicit/If I say something I am isolated as extreme.”[68]

Hammad’s sense of hopelessness gives way to a series of negations:

• This is about light and dark
• There is no black and white in humanity

• I am told
• Venezuela is not Cuba
• Rwanda is not Kurdistan

• I am not the woman kneeling
• In front of soldiers and their cameras and their weapons
• I am not the child shot in the head by the Israel Defense Forces
• I am not the starving AIDS inflicted mother
• Praying I live longer than my children
• So they will not be orphaned and sick and have to bury me
• I am not the child who watched
• Her family chopped to death in Lebanon in Sudan in Nicaragua
• I am not the father who leaves his children so as not to hear their
• empty Bellies call out Baba, where is the bread?[69]

Followed by a series of affirmations:

• I am the woman whose taxes outfitted this tragedy
• The American the Authority does not speak for
• The Arab the Arab leaders do not speak for
• The woman whose shouts of Not in My Name
• Were spit back at me as a slogan of the misguided at best
• I am the girl from Brooklyn told to mind her business
• I am the poet in search of new words
• And a new world Not Mars[70]

By demonstrating how all that separates us can threaten any attempt at collective empathy and struggle, and also how authorities and leaders exploit those boundaries and manipulate (in addition to perpetrating, of course) human suffering so as to maintain those boundaries, Hammad struggles to regain common ground and reconnect the dots across a world on fire. In the end however the poet remains hopeful, reaffirming the power of love despite love’s vulnerability in times of chaos:

• There is still love in us
• …
• There is still enough resistance in us
• To create a world where there is no
• Your people or my people
• But our people
• Our people who kill Our people who are killed

• I somehow know love will save us
• …
• I know somehow love will save us
• Though I can’t find the passion or desire in my body to make it

• There is still a source for peace deeply embedded in this chaos

• I know love will save us
• Though words fail to point out how

• Amazingly I still pray
• To a god I envision to be larger than any nation Any religion

• And I still hunt for language to gather into a poem
• That I pray will feed those like me
• In need of proof they are not alone[71]

The repeated affirmations of love’s power to save and unite that end “Beyond Words” can be found elsewhere in Hammad’s poetry, such as in “some of my best friends,” in which she proclaims “love is larger than our details/these are my people.”[72] The poet’s—and, by extension, the universal patriot’s—determination to stay connected, to continue to assert that “over there is over here” and therefore “their” concerns should also be “ours,” brings to mind another profound conclusion drawn by Minh-ha:

The moment the insider steps out from the inside she’s no longer a mere insider. She necessarily looks in from the outside while also looking out from the inside. Not quite the same, not quite the other, she stands in that undetermined threshold place where she continually drifts in and out. Undercutting the inside/outside opposition, her intervention is necessarily that of both not quite an insider and not quite an outsider. She is, in other words, this inappropriate other or same who moves about with always at least two gestures: that of affirming “I am like you” while persisting in her difference and that of reminding “I am different” while unsettling every definition of otherness arrived at.[73]

Such is the nature—the mission, the dream—of the universal patriot, neither inside nor outside, here nor there, nowhere but everywhere. In this schema, the world becomes the site of multiple engagements, with home, with self, and with struggle.

In December 2010, American Quarterly featured the forum, “From La Frontera to Gaza: Chicano-Palestinian Connections” in which the aim was to “ask important questions about the connections between pursuits of justice and the organization of bodies and nations.”[74] I could not help but to draw connections between this particular issue of AQ and Hammad’s poetry, which essentially strives to accomplish the same ends. Thankfully, it seems that Hammad’s poetry is part of an ongoing project in which nations, especially “America,” are deconstructed and rearticulated as a series of connections within and without its borders. Such a re-articulation necessitates a revision—that is, an expansion—of a term closely associated with nationhood: patriotism. Curiously (though not surprisingly), while nations extend their borders and expand their frontiers, the same does not follow for the concept of patriotism. In her provocative essay “Intifada, USA,” June Jordan, tormented by the onset of the Gulf War and haunted by images of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict, endeavors to link struggle to struggle in the very same fashion as Hammad and contemplates the fate of us all:

• Clearly, a barrel of oil is worth more than any number of Palestinian lives. Clearly, a barrel of oil is worth more than 250,000 young African-American and Mexican-American and Latino and poor white men and women now sweltering on the Arabian desert while they await God-knows-what horrible and untimely death.

• I say we need a rising up, an Intifada, USA.
• …
• We need to rise up. We need to stand against the “standoff” in the Persian Gulf. We need an Intifada, USA.

• At night, I go to bed afraid to close my eyes, or sleep: I ask my soul these questions aching on my conscience: What will happen to that little girl, that child of Palestine? What is happening to you and me?[75]

Those haunting questions Jordan poses at the conclusion of her essay rhetorically close the distance and bridge the gap between “them” and “us” by premising that what is happening to “that child of Palestine” is what is happening to “you and me.” The work of Jordan and Hammad, the activism of Rachel Corrie, and the “project of reimagination” at the heart of scholarly publications like AQ are continuing to make these connections, and in the process are redefining what it means to love one’s country, one’s people, and oneself in a world that is anything but singular. As Gloria Anzaldúa wrote, from the borders:

Through the act of writing you call … the scattered pieces of your soul back to your body. You commence the arduous task of rebuilding yourself, composing a story that more accurately expresses your new identity. You seek out allies and, together, begin building spiritual/political communities that struggle for personal growth and social justice … [and] forge bonds across race, gender and other lines, thus creating a new tribalism. … [I]nternal work coupled with commitment to struggle for social transformation—changes your relationship to your body, and, in turn, to other bodies and to the world. And when that happens, you change the world.[76]

Unfortunately, however, the obstacles are still there, even growing: given the prevalence of violent conflict all over the world, the comfort of hierarchy and the rhetoric of separation seem only to be disseminating instead of dwindling. Thus, the quintessential challenge facing any project of social justice is to invent new ways of drawing out and prioritizing the “we” in “I” in order to be a successful, at least possible, global force for change.

The post “Woman Walking Heavy/Brown Worlds in her Face”: Global(ized) Identities and Universal Patriotism in the poetry of Suheir Hammad appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

J’ai longuement réfléchi avant de vous écrire. Je sais que vous avez de nombreuses préoccupations et non des moindres. Vous êtes à la tête du plus vaste Empire de l’histoire, vous êtes son timonier et sa lumière. Je ne suis qu’un simple citoyen, mais un citoyen engagé et qui a à cœur les intérêts de l’Empire. Empire qui, est-il nécessaire de le rappeler, depuis bientôt quatre siècles, rayonne de tous ses feux. C’est l’empire de loin le plus riche dans l’histoire du monde. Nous sommes la première puissance militaire au monde, nous disposons des meilleures universités, nous avons effectué des découvertes monumentales dans le domaine scientifique, nous avons colonisé Mars et bientôt d’autres planètes, notre vie culturelle est d’une richesse inouïe mais, plus encore, l’Empire a permis d’établir, grâce à la diplomatie, la paix dans une bonne partie de la planète.

Et bientôt, Maître, sous votre sage gouverne, on réalisera l’impossible, l’Utopie sur terre.

Se pointent néanmoins à l’horizon des dangers, anodins si on en croit certains, mais qui sapent les fondements de l’Empire, qui pourraient même le détruire. L’objectif premier de nos ennemis est la décomposition de nos pays. Oui, Maître, ils veulent les détruire, je vous l’assure. La situation, à vrai dire, est grave. Et il est important d’agir au plus vite. Ils sont partout. Il faut être d’une extrême vigilance.

Il est cependant impératif de procéder de manière rationnelle. L’Emperationalité est le propre du génie de notre peuple ; nous récusons les émotions primaires, les jugements hâtifs à l’emporte-pièce, nous devons donc analyser les problèmes avant de proposer des solutions. Je précise que mon ambition est modeste : comme je ne suis qu’un humble citoyen (ni savant ni intellectuel), elle consiste uniquement à susciter un débat, à éveiller les consciences.

Permettez-moi, Maître, de vous faire une confidence. Je les vois parfois la nuit. Ils hantent mes rêves. Ils hantent mes cauchemars. Ils sont passés maîtres dans l’art du déguisement. Ils parviennent à se nicher dans les rêves et les cauchemars des innocents. On croit parler à un des nôtres et on découvre, avec terreur, un Occidental. Ils sont semblables à des fourmis, des millions de fourmis, qui fomentent, sur leurs petites pattes dégoutantes, la subversion.

Ils sont partout, vous dis-je Maître. Ils grouillent sous ma peau. Des millions, que dis-je, des milliards de petites fourmis, mesquines et méchantes. Savez-vous, Maître, que ces fourmis par millions, par milliards grouillent sous la peau ? Savez-vous, Maître, que le visage des ces fourmis toute la nuit durant hurlent leur haine de l’Emperocratie ?

Permettez-moi de vous donner un conseil. Il faut se méfier : l’être le plus anodin, le plus sympathique est peut-être un Occidental. Et ils n’ont qu’un objectif : nous défaire.

Certains de nos plus brillants intellectuels réclament une nouvelle interprétation de l’Histoire. Ils prétendent que le succès de notre peuple n’est pas dû à son génie propre mais à l’influence d’autres civilisations, notamment l’Occident. Ainsi, l’Occident qui sombre depuis longtemps dans le déclin–, rappelons ici que son déclin a commencé au début du 21^e siècle pour les raisons que l’on sait : le surendettement, un modèle politique archaïque, le culte de l’argent facile et surtout l’échec éthique et spirituel—, cet Occident aurait suscité l’émergence de l’Emperocratie. Quelques-uns affirment, par ailleurs, que nos historiens pratiquent l’Emperocentrisme, qu’ils ramènent tout à l’Empire en négligeant la contribution de l’Occident. On aurait donc détourné l’histoire, fait de l’emprise occidentale qui n’a duré en tout et pour tout que deux siècles, un égarement avant que l’Empire ne reprenne le dessus. Ces critiques tentent de démontrer que l’Occident serait à l’origine de nombreux progrès accomplis : les découvertes effectuées à la fin du 20^e siècle dans le domaine aérospatial auraient permis la colonisation de Mars, ou encore celles dans le domaine de la physique quantique, l’invention de l’ordinateur simulateur d’une réalité parfaite. Ce sont évidemment des thèses farfelues.

Soyons justes cependant. L’Occident a effectivement dominé le monde pendant deux siècles mais en saignant les peuples conquis jusqu’à la dernière goutte, en les réduisant en esclavage, en pillant leurs ressources. Et s’il est vrai que des progrès ont été réalisés à cette époque, ils ne sont nullement comparables à ce qui a été fait depuis. Comment peut-on comparer la théorie de la relativité avec la théorie de l’interelativité, qui nous permettra bientôt d’explorer des univers parallèles ? Comment peut-on comparer l’invention de l’ordinateur avec l’invention de l’Ordinatrix, une machine capable de fabriquer de nouvelles espèces ?

Comment mettre de telles merveilles (voyage spatio-temporel, téléportation d’objets ou l’énergie perpétuelle) sur le compte d’une vieille civilisation qui se morfond aujourd’hui dans la superstition ? Certes, on peut leur reconnaître un mérite, celui d’avoir agi comme une courroie de transmission relayant le savoir ancien et perdu de l’Empire, mais sans plus. Notre civilisation, il faut le réitérer, a réussi grâce à son génie propre, c’est-à-dire une véritable éthique du travail, le respect de la hiérarchie, la discipline, une intelligence rationnelle et systémique.

Rappelons, Maître, que nous voulons instaurer la paix et il est malheureux de constater qu’on sabote cette démarche en propageant le mensonge.

Je dois vous avouer que je suis parfois las. Je me dois d’exercer la plus grande vigilance car ces Occidentaux prolifèrent partout. Mais je veille au grain. Je ne vais pas me laisser faire. Récemment j’ai eu recours à une méthode pour le moins radicale. Je n’ai pas fermé l’œil pendant plus de trois jours. Sans sommeil, je n’ai pas rêvé et les fourmis ne m’ont pas persécuté. Je ne compte pas m’arrêter en si bon chemin. Désormais, je me propose de les extirper de mon corps avec un couteau. Je vais les tuer, ces maudites fourmis. Je vais me les faire.

On prétend que j’ai perdu la tête. Que je devrais consacrer mon temps aux soucis des communs des mortels. Mais les autres manquent de raison, Maître. Je sais que vous comprenez ma démarche. Je me bats pour un idéal. Protéger l’Emperocratie. Peu importe les palabres, peu importe les qu’en-dira-t-on.

Bientôt quand je me mettrai à lacérer mon corps, les imbéciles insinueront que je suis un fou. Je suis prêt, Maître, à affronter leurs quolibets. Je me propose (sous votre bienveillante autorisation, évidemment) de leur expliquer la gravité de la situation sur la place publique. Ils n’y comprendront rien. Ils ne veulent pas comprendre. Mais le spectacle de mon sang embué de fourmis maladives ébranlera les consciences.

Et je vais les tuer, Maître. Les petites fourmis. Toutes les petites fourmis. Avec mon beau couteau.

Mais revenons, Maître, à des considérations intellectuelles, plus dignes de votre attention. Je dois m’élever à votre niveau et non vous rabaisser au mien.

Pour ce qui est de l’Emperocentrisme, il est évident que c’est une thèse absurde. Si nos historiens ont ancré l’Empire au centre de la trame de l’histoire, c’est pour une raison toute bête, qui a évidemment échappé aux intellectuels bien-pensants : nous avons fait l’Histoire, nous l’avons forgée et elle est indissociable de notre histoire. Il est de bon ton, de nos jours, de pratiquer du masochisme intellectuel, certains estiment qu’il est plaisant de s’auto-lapider ;   il faut au contraire avoir le courage de ses convictions, il faut pouvoir s’affirmer, dire, haut et fort, sans complexes, sans aucun sentiment de supériorité, que nous sommes le souffle qui a façonné l’Histoire des quatre derniers siècles.

On peut certes se livrer à des acrobaties intellectuelles, prétendre qu’une vétille a une portée historique (par exemple, les frasques politiques des pays Occidentaux) mais un fait demeure, l’Empire domine le monde et l’Histoire du monde (la grande, pas celle des dérisoires) est l’histoire de l’Empire. Qu’on le veuille ou pas.

J’estime que nous souffrons d’un mal, le complexe du vainqueur. Il faut faire preuve de modestie, c’est une des qualités de notre peuple, mais cette modestie ne doit pas se transformer en haine de soi. Sinon, nous risquons de devenir un peuple occidentalisé, incapable de réaliser ses ambitions, peureux et sans courage. Et surtout mesquin. Qui trouve le moyen de se déguiser en fourmi et en humain. Qui ne respecte pas les règles les plus élémentaires de la décence. Qu’il faut extirper systématiquement de ses rêves et de son corps.

Fourmis qu’il faut exterminer avec un couteau. Avec un bon gros couteau. Cou. Teau. Four. Mis. Je les tue. Tu les tues. On les tue. Les Four. Mis. Les fourmis mises dans un four. Ça me tue !

Permettez-moi, Maître, de vous raconter une anecdote. Je me suis récemment rendu en Europe. Je comptais aussi visiter les Etats-Unis (désormais désunis) mais, comme vous le savez, c’est un pays ravagé par la guerre et seuls les plus intrépides y ont désormais accès. Je dois avouer que j’aime bien le vieux continent, son histoire, son pittoresque, la cuisine est merveilleuse et les Européens dans l’ensemble ont su préserver un art de vivre ancien. On y rencontre aussi des personnes merveilleuses, ils ont un sens inné de l’accueil, il règne d’ailleurs une perpétuelle atmosphère de beuverie, joviale et conviviale. Et, franchement, on se laisse prendre au jeu, on boit de la bière et on mange des frites, on rigole et on rote. Il faut dire qu’ils sont sympathiques, les Européens.

Il y a chez eux un curieux mélange de rusticité et de générosité. Et il est évident qu’ils ont bon cœur, il leur est difficile d’exercer l’Emperationalité mais ils sont bons dans le fond. On comprend ainsi que le vent de révolte qui souffle dans ces pays est l’affaire d’extrémistes qui manipulent les modérés. L’Européen moyen désire comme tout le monde une vie paisible (donnez-lui du cochon, de la bière et des frites et il sera heureux) ; il se trouve pourtant des extrémistes, notamment religieux, les fameux Europats, qui attisent les flammes de la sédition.

Il est une chose qui m’a ému et c’est le spectacle de la déchéance. Ainsi les grandes villes sont dans un triste état, les pauvres se promènent partout, ils vivent entassés, par millions, dans des bidonvilles géants mais, pire encore. ils sont sous le joug de chefs religieux, des exaltés qui leur inculquent leur pseudo-savoir. Ils sont fanatisés par le désespoir et sont manipulés par de dangereux gourous. Figurez-vous que lors d’une visite à l’université d’Oxford, un jeune homme a piqué mon porte-monnaie. Mais je ne lui en veux pas, le pauvre. Je me dis que c’est peut-être un affamé ou un de ces aliénés qui errent dans les villes. Après, j’ai ressenti comme une étrange nostalgie. C’est un grand penseur de l’Occident qui a un jour écrit que ‘les civilisations sont mortelles’ et elles le sont effectivement. Comment donc expliquer le déclin de cette belle civilisation ? Suffit-il donc d’un rien pour que tout s’écroule ? Où sont passées les belles capitales, Amsterdam, Paris ou Londres?

Je me suis ensuite rendu dans la British Library qui est désormais une salle de spectacle accueillant des foules déchainées qui acclament des chanteuses déjantées, qu’elles se déhanchent en mini-jupes afin de célébrer leur culture ancestrale. Mais, pire encore, Maître, la Sorbonne, célèbre université française, est désormais un lieu de culte, on y prêche le fanatisme Europat, un cocktail explosif, comme vous le savez, de superstitions et de violence. Le plus affreux fut la visite dans les quartiers de cette grande maison d’édition française, Goguenard. Qu’est-ce qu’on y trouve désormais à votre avis ? Une librairie ? Une bibliothèque ? Non, Maître, on y trouve des fous qui brûlent des livres ! Que sont devenues les langues européennes, l’anglais, le français ou encore l’espagnol ? Pourquoi sont-elles désormais des terres arides, incapables d’inventer des concepts, des langues mièvres et moribondes ? On ne sait que trop bien les raisons de cette métamorphose, mais cela ne nous empêche pas d’éprouver un sentiment de nostalgie.

Retenons une leçon pour nous. Nous ne devons pas dormir sur nos lauriers. Le monde a besoin de l’Emperocratie, il a besoin de nos valeurs, de notre éthique, sans quoi il succombera à la barbarie gauloise. Il faut donc tout faire pour préserver notre suprématie. Cela dit, je suis convaincu après mon bref séjour en Europe que nous devons étendre notre programme d’aide aux pays pauvres. La solidarité Emperohumaniste est essentielle. Nous devons voter un budget conséquent pour les soutenir. Mais, plus encore, nous devons leur inculquer nos principes et nos valeurs.

Voyage agréable mais constat désespéré.

Tout n’est pas perdu pour autant.

Car on peut compter sur de nombreux Occidentaux, ceux qui soutiennent notre action. Je pense à un intellectuel en particulier qui a récemment publié, La Maladie de l’Occident, livre remarquable qui nous démontre que l’Occident est depuis longtemps empêtré dans une attitude régressive, dans le culte d’une gloire passée, d’un idéal à jamais défunt et qu’il est impératif de procéder à une réforme. L’élément clé de cet ouvrage est la déconstruction de la culture victimaire qui rend l’Emperocratie responsable de tous les problèmes de l’Occident. Le message est fort : nous en sommes là parce que c’est de notre faute. On conviendra que ce sont des idées subversives dans le contexte actuel.

Rappelons que nombreux sont les intellectuels, semblables à l’auteur de cet ouvrage, qui siègent dans des Emperothinktank, où ils interviennent régulièrement dans les grands médias et élaborent des stratégies pour aider les Occidentaux. Signalons aussi qu’ils ont soutenu notre intervention en Italie et la politique de ségrégation positive en Suisse. Ces intellectuels, et il faut s’en féliciter, sont d’excellents interlocuteurs. Ancrés dans leur culture d’origine, ce sont des Occidentaux authentiques mais qui comprennent tous les rouages du modèle Emperocratique. Ce sont des hommes et des femmes-ponts pouvant contribuer à combler le fossé entre nous et les Occidentaux. Ils ont besoin de notre soutien.

Toutefois, les rétrogrades ou victimaires répandent leurs slogans creux que je me permets, Maître, de résumer en une seule phrase pathétique : vous nous persécutez. Ainsi, ils nous accusent de tous les maux de la terre. Vous avez probablement lu, Maître, cet ouvrage qui a eu un certain écho, Peau blanche, Masque jaune qui évoque les complexes d’infériorité de l’homme blanc, qui l’invite à s’en débarrasser, à affirmer son identité, à se battre pour renverser l’Emperocratie. Tant de textes du même acabit ressassent les mêmes blâmes. Mais ce sont des peccadilles, Maître. L’Occident aujourd’hui est le fardeau de l’Empire.

Ayons le courage d’énoncer quelques vérités toutes simples. L’Occident a besoin de nous. Ses foules doivent se libérer de leurs carcans. Elles ont besoin d’un nouvel Einstein, d’un nouveau Newton, il en va de leur avenir. Un Occident qui aura renoué avec le dynamisme sera au service de la paix et se mettra enfin en marche vers le progrès.

Pas à n’importe quel prix, Maître. Avez-vous déjà vu une fourmi gluante et puante ? Savez-vous qu’il n’en reste plus dans mon corps ? Je les en ai extirpées. Je me suis beaucoup amusé, à vrai dire. Il est tout à fait agréable de transpercer la chair molle, libérant par le biais du couteau tout un arc en ciel de couleurs suintant de leur abdomen, de leurs glandes et de leur tout petit cerveau.

Je vous avoue, Maître, que je suis fou de joie car il n’en reste plus une seule. Permettez-moi de vous inviter à venir me rendre visite car je les ai incinérées dans un petit four construit à cet effet. Il n’est en rien grandiose mais il rend hommage à ma volonté de fer. Je ne suis pas homme à me laisser faire. Et s’il le faut, je m’en prendrai bientôt aux fourmis qui s’attaquent au corps de nos concitoyens. Je sais qu’elles y sont, bien cachées, prêtes à déferler leur bandeau de bébêtes carnivores au moment convenu.

Peut-être qu’il y en a une dans votre corps, Maître. Mais je ne le crois pas. Je ne sais pas encore. Je ne l’espère pas. Mais on tuera toutes les fourmis en temps et lieu.

Une nouvelle idée a fait son chemin dans nos universités : l’Occidentalisme. C’est, comme vous le savez, Maître, un jeune et brillant intellectuel d’origine allemande qui a développé ce champ d’études. Que signifie donc l’Occidentalisme ? En deux mots, un système de représentation dans lequel l’Emperocratie a cloisonné l’Occident et l’inventé à sa propre guise. Le savoir occidentaliste serait donc tributaire du pouvoir et représenterait surtout un fantasme des intellectuels de l’Empire. Cette thèse ayant ses prophètes est évidemment fausse. L’Occidentalisme n’existe pas. Nos scientifiques sont motivés par le désir de comprendre l’Autre dans toute sa vibrante humanité. Leur savoir a permis d’excaver l’âge d’or occidental. De fait, nos chercheurs ont redécouvert les grands écrivains occidentaux : sans eux, qui se souviendrait encore des grandes œuvres de Proust ou de Faulkner ?

J’ai eu l’occasion, par ailleurs, de rencontrer certains de ces grands Emperohumanistes qui travaillent sur l’Occident ancien. Je ne les retrouve absolument pas dans les caricatures des prêcheurs de l’Occidentalisme ;  ils seraient, selon ces derniers, des ‘racistes, qui souhaitent perpétuer la domination coloniale.’ Vous conviendrez, Maître, que c’est absurde. Cet homme qui a consacré toute sa vie à étudier les tribus barbares anglaises, qui a publié un ouvrage fondamental, Foot et Bière ou le retour du Barbare, serait-il donc un Occidentaliste ? Non, Maître, les recherches de nos savants expriment un désir sincère de comprendre l’Autre. Ceux qui en doutent en se focalisant sur quelques stéréotypes par-ci, par-là font preuve de mauvaise foi. On se voit contraint de leur dire, sur le ton de la plus grande politesse, que ce sont, messieurs dames les intellectuels bien-pensants, des foutaises.

De telles thèses ne sont en rien anodines. Elles visent à détruire l’Emperocratie.

Et comment s’y prennent-ils ? En infiltrant les corps. In. Fil. Trant. Le mien. Le vôtre. Mon corps, le vôtre. Votre fil d’Ariane, le mien. Je perds le fil, je le retrouve, je l’écrase ! Nos corps. Ils y sont filtrés. Par le sang. Par le feu. Par tout. Une ligne de fourmis, une colonie, partout.

Il faut aussi parler de l’Occidentalaphobie. Nos intellectuels génèrent des mots à sonorité bizarre, qu’ils sont souvent les seuls, en compagnie de la clique des snobs et des prétentieux, à comprendre. L’Occidentalaphobie serait donc la diabolisation de l’Occident et, on peut dire, pour une fois, qu’ils n’ont pas tout à fait tort. Je ne parle pas évidemment des élucubrations des théoriciens du complot, mais des hypothèses parfois justes de certains modérés. Aussi est-il vrai de dire que les médias (qui servent surtout à assouvir les instincts les plus primaires des foules), ressassent le stéréotype de l’Occidental apte à des actes fanatiques, amateur de paninis et de boissons gazeuses, personnage souvent grossier et primaire, dont le cerveau se situe dans un lieu que la pudeur m’interdit de nommer.

On se souvient, par exemple, d’une série récente à succès sur les errances d’un Espagnol apparemment parfaitement intégré dans l’Emperocratie mais qui se révèle être un Européen ‘traditionnel’ (bon vivant et pas tout à fait intelligent) et, évidemment, terroriste. Certains diront que ces stéréotypes ont un fond de vérité mais nous récusons de telles analyses. Bien que l’homme occidental ait ses défauts, il nous faut faire preuve d’empathie. La caricature ne servira qu’à entretenir la haine. Il faut rappeler aux grands propriétaires des médias que nous luttons pour conquérir les cœurs, pour qu’il y ait un rapprochement entre les peuples, pour accomplir notre mission conciliatrice.

Cela dit, il est hors de question de pratiquer la censure. Nous sommes un peuple qui respecte au plus haut degré la liberté d’expression. Je vous vois mal, par exemple, demander à un cinéaste de censurer son film. Il faut, par contre, engager une réflexion constructive, tendre la main à l’autre dans un véritable esprit de partage. Signalons à cet effet un film remarquable, L’Anglaise, qui raconte le retour d’une jeune Anglaise dans son pays après un séjour dans une grande ville de l’Empire. Un film subtil qui parvient à éviter tous les poncifs du genre. Je ne veux pas gâcher votre plaisir, mais la protagoniste parvient, après de nombreuses péripéties, à libérer ses concitoyennes des contraintes de la société traditionnelle, notamment, du double phénomène de l’anglicisation des esprits et de l’Europatisme, dont le symbole est le string en l’air sous un jean moulant. Il faut aussi préciser que, si je suis critique à l’égard de l’Occidentalphobie,  je considère, néanmoins, que son utilisation abusive relève de la supercherie. Trop souvent, l’on accuse à tort à travers tout le monde d’être Occidentalophobe. C’est une tentative d’empêcher le débat d’idées.

On veut contraindre la pensée, on veut subvertir la liberté d’expression, on s’en prend aux valeurs fondamentales de l’Emperocratie. Vive l’empathie ! Mais il faut se méfier des fourmis.

Hier, j’en ai repéré une, Maître, qui remuait sous la peau de mon frère. J’ai failli pousser un cri de joie à la percevoir sous son épiderme. Car cela confirme mon intuition. Elles sont partout. Elles s’insinuent sans cesse dans le corps des vénérables habitants de l’Emperocratie. Est-ce que vous me permettez de vous faire un aveu, Maître ? Figurez-vous que j’ai été contraint, oui contraint, contraint, contraint, haha haha, contraint, de l’exterminer. J’ai exterminé l’insecte. Je l’ai renvoyé ad patres en dehors de son cuir.

Qui est le plus fort ? Répondez à la question. Qui est le plus fort ? Qu’on réponde à la question. Qui veut répondre à la question ? Qui ose répondre à la question ? C’est moi, seulement moi, car, moi, j’ai tué la fourmi et, ce faisant, j’ai cuit mon frère. Puis, j’ai rigolé un bon coup. Après que j’ai tué mon frère. Le pauvre ne méritait pas de mourir. Mais il n’est plus… pas plus que la fourmi. J’ai fait d’une pierre deux coups. Mon frère et une fourmi. Mon frère est une fourmi qui n’est plus. Une de plus, une de moins. Qu’importe ? La pauvre n’est plus. Il faut rigoler, Maître, de nos bons coups.

Suis-je mort Maître ? Non. Êtes-vous mort, Maître ? Non. Alors, rigolons encore le temps de vivre. Carpe diem ! Carpe Tergum ! Vive l’Emperocratie !

Mais passons. L’objet de cette lettre n’est pas d’évoquer les frasques des fourmis ni la mort de mon frère. Passons, Maître. Mais avant de passer il est recommandé de rigoler un bon coup. Un bon coup à deux. Et comment rigole-t-on ? On rigole ainsi. Haha haha. Hihi hihi.

Votre rire a le mérite d’être magnifique.

Où est mon frère Maître ? Il est en bonne compagnie dans le cimetière des fourmis. .

Le reproche est grave. Des voix—, et pas des moindres—, nous accusent d’avoir envahi l’Italie sous de faux prétextes. Car notre ambition est, paraît-il, de mettre fin à ses velléités d’Indépendance, qui représenteraient une menace pour l’Emperocratie. Rien de plus absurde, Maître. L’Italie est désormais un véritable nid de terroristes, qui se livrent à un combat acharné contre l’Empire. Est-il nécessaire ici de rappeler la lâcheté de ces soi-disant insurgés, qui massacrent impunément enfants, femmes et vieillards ? Nous avons agi ainsi parce que nous ne pouvions faire autrement. Rappelons que nous avons soutenu l’établissement d’une Emperocratie modelée sur la nôtre, malheureusement les Italiens ont choisi un Empereur plus soucieux de terreur que de liberté. Nous respectons évidemment le choix de ce peuple fier et parfois vantard ; il est pourtant des limites qu’on ne peut outrepasser. Et rappelons, par ailleurs, que nous avons tenté d’engager le dialogue avec les ex-dirigeants de ce pays mais ils y sont réfractaires. On sait pertinemment qu’ils soutiennent les terroristes. L’invasion, dans ces circonstances, était la seule option.

Il est facile de nous pointer du doigt, de dire que nous sommes des colons mais qui se souvient de l’attaque contre le bâtiment symbole de l’Emperocratie ? Qui se souvient aussi des morts, des milliers d’enfants ? Qui s’en souvient ? Et aujourd’hui on nous parle d’hypocrisie. Qu’est-ce qu’on est censé faire? Dialoguer avec les terroristes qui jalousent notre mode de vie, nos valeurs ? Dis, donc ! Il faut arrêter avec de telles fariboles. Il est si facile de critiquer autrui, bien assis dans le confort de son salon, mais que savent nos intellectuels bien-pensants de ces hommes et de ces femmes se battant au quotidien contre le Mal sur le terrain ? Ils risquent leur vie au nom de nos valeurs. La situation s’est d’ailleurs considérablement stabilisée en Italie. On sait que ce peuple a le goût du spectaculaire mais notre régime Emperocratique a su les ramener à la raison.

Je persiste et signe, je le trouve scandaleux de décrire cette invasion comme étant illégale. Personne n’aime la guerre mais elle est parfois le moindre mal. Il faut donc tuer les bêtes (et fourmis) avant qu’il ne puissent exercer leur férocité, ôter le masque, ouvrir leurs grosses bouches pleines de dents jaunes pourries, nous avaler de l’intérieur, manger à leur faim sous notre peau à nous. Que les chiens de la médiocrité aboient. La caravane de la lumière, le fil de l’Histoire de l’Emperocratie doivent pouvoir avancer.

Et elle avancera, ne cessera d’avancer. La voyez-vous, Maître, la caravane, la belle caravane, la splendide caravane qui avance à vive allure ? Savez-vous Maître que la caravane écrase les fourmis puantes sous ses roues ? Savez-vous qu’elle leur roule dessus et qu’elle les écrase à plat ? Et que ça fait un drôle de bruit, bruit de fourmis qui meurent. Pachak. Ça fait pachak et pachouk. Un bruit remarquable, Maître. Petite musique des rouages du temps. Mais la mélodie qui me plaît le plus,  c’est celle du couteau qui extrait la fourmi du corps de mon frère. Comme il criait, le couteau ! Un chant de libération !

Quel est donc ce bruit, Maître ? Pas de pachak, encore moins un pachouk. Mais un autre bruit, des plus étranges.

Qu’importe, il n’est qu’une chose qui compte : la mort des fourmis. Il faut les tuer. Mais avant que je n’en tue d’autres, des milliers d’autres, avant que je ne vous raconte mes exploits, il faut rigoler un bon coup.

Rigolons Maître.  Haha haha ha. Hihi hihi hihi hi. Riez après moi, dans la bonne humeur. Hahaha. Hihihihi.

Est-ce que vous riez, Maître ? Je ne vous entends pas. Faut pas arrêter car c’est bon pour la santé et le rire éloigne les fourmis. C’est le rire qu’ils aiment pas, eux, qui adorent la musique des cris.

Désormais, j’enfonce mon couteau dans les corps de tous les contaminés. Je sais l’art délicat de tuer la fourmi. Je suis expert. Et je rigole.

Qu’est-ce que je fais ? Je rigogogogogogle. Qu’est-ce que je fais ? Je rigoogle. Je rigoogle. Je google le rire et j’en ris.

Ha ha ha. Hi hi hi hi. Avez-vous déjà vu le corps sans vie d’une personne sans fourmis ? Sans vie, sans fourmis. Four. Mis. Sans. Vie. For. Me. En langue barbare anglaise. À l’ancienne, on regoogle en anglais !

Riions un peu. Le rire Anti-Four-Mis. J’ai tué, il y a quelques jours de cela, une vieille femme. Petite mimi. Parce qu’il y avait des Four. Mis. Qui. Que. Quoi. Où ? Comment ? Pourquoi ? Pour rire. N’arrêtons pas de rire.

Hahahaha.

Hihihihi.

Hahaha. Hihihi.

Four. Mis.

AAAAAAAAAAAA. IIIIIIIIIIIIII.

Autre problème important à évoquer, à mon modeste avis, celui de la Suisse, pays que nous avions envahi en 2250 pour les raisons que l’on sait. On se souvient que la populace avait commis des actes ignobles à l’égard de la population immigrée, originaire de l’Empire. Alors que cette invasion a rétabli le calme, on nous accuse aujourd’hui de reléguer la population suisse dans des quasi-prisons et de les persécuter. Une de fois plus, nos intellectuels bien-pensants ont tout faux. Notre pratique est celle de la ‘ségrégation positive,’ car il reste des clivages pour le moment insurmontables entre nos compatriotes et les autochtones. Pour établir la paix que nous souhaitons si vivement, il nous faut des interlocuteurs sensibles. Nous constatons le refus systématique d’engager le dialogue et le recours à des méthodes peu louables. Certains prétendent même que ce qu’on appelle désormais la ‘quasi-prison de Neuchâtel’ serait une honte, alors que c’est l’exemple le mieux réussi de ségrégation positive. Mais peut-on procéder autrement quand on sait que ce lieu fabrique du terrorisme ? Nous avons affaire à un peuple qui ne comprend guère le langage de l’Emperocratie.

Il nous faut des interlocuteurs qui inspirent confiance, ayant les mêmes objectifs que nous. On bute, au contraire, sur le silence. On nous affirme vouloir la paix, puis on procède à des attaques terroristes sur les civils. Cela est scandaleux. Ce sont des jaloux, ceux qui veulent miner notre suprématie, alors que l’Emperocratie tient à cœur les intérêts des peuples faibles. La ségrégation positive est au service de ceux qui veulent se protéger des terroristes vivant parmi eux.

Une fourmi putride est-elle apte à assimiler nos valeurs ?  Voilà la question.

Hahahaha. Hihihi.

Four. Mis. Four. Mis.

Maître, avez-vous déjà vu une fourmi volante ? Elle fait vroum dans le ciel et elle a de nombreux pouvoirs. Pou. Pou. Pou. Voirs. Voyez-vous les poux ? Nous devons les tuer, vous dis-je. Hahahaha. Hihihihi.

Mais revenons à nos moutons pouilleux.

Il faut aussi parler du Mur, le fameux Mur de la discorde, objet de toutes les polémiques. Les esprits chagrinés nous accusent d’avoir construit le ‘Mur de la honte’ afin d’officialiser le racisme. Sornettes que tout ça, Maître. Il est des réalités que nul aveuglement ne peut dissiper. Nous sommes tous humains mais, bon, il n’empêche que nous sommes différents. Il est déshonorant, de nos jours, de dire la vérité. On peut tout dire sauf la vérité. Il faut mettre un terme à ce bonenfantisme qui nous fait accroire que tous les humains sont faits pour vivre ensemble. Non, messieurs dames les intellectuels, messieurs dames les adeptes du bonenfantisme, il n’y a, il est vrai, qu’une seule race, la race humaine mais des millénaires de culture et de raffinement nous séparent.

Et s’il est de notre devoir d’éduquer les masses, il faut néanmoins rester lucide et reconnaître que cela prendra du temps, sans doute des siècles. D’où le Mur. Non, ce n’est pas, comme on l’a dit, une ode au racisme, c’est le fruit d’un constat : les membres de l’Emperocratie ne peuvent coexister avec les Suisses. D’une part, il s’agit d’une question de sécurité : au sein de la communauté suisse, laquelle comprend des personnes souvent charmantes, se trouvent des terroristes prêts à tout. On sait que, depuis la construction du Mur, le nombre d’actes terroristes a brutalement chuté. D’autre part, il est un fait : les citoyens de l’Emperocratie n’ont rien en commun avec les Suisses. Est-ce qu’il nous est permis d’énoncer la vérité alors que le politiquement correct sévit ? Nous sommes, Maître, différents.

Nous sommes des êtres cultivés alors qu’il vivotent dans la barbarie. Nous sommes des êtres raffinés alors qu’ils en sont encore à apprendre les bonnes manières des moutons. Nous mangeons des plats raffinés alors qu’ils bouffent de la paille indigeste. Nous sommes des êtres paisibles alors qu’ils sont les partisans de la violence. Nous sommes des êtres dotés d’une vision alors qu’ils sont incapables de prévoir des lendemains. Et ces différences, Maître, ne sont pas les élucubrations d’un esprit fatigué, mais des réalités bien concrètes. Incontournables. Rien n’est plus réel.

Qu’on le veuille ou pas. Ce mur est, en d’autres mots, l’expression de notre pragmatisme. On aimerait bien les voir, Maître, nos intellectuels bien-pensants, à subir au quotidien l’attaque des barbares. On se demande si les grands esprits du salon trouveraient alors le temps de vanter les mérites de la fusion des cultures et d’autres âneries du même genre quand ils connaîtraient les cris du couteau dans le ventre de la fourmi.

Riions encore un coup, Maître. Un coup dans le ventre de la Méditerranée, comme une caravane de pirogues que le vent de la tempête fait écouler sans histoire.

Hahahaha. Hihihihi.

Peut-on coexister avec les fourmis ? Certes, on peut les respecter. On peut éprouver de l’empathie à leur égard, on peut s’amuser avec elles, on peut même aimer leur chant quand elles se meurent. Mais vivre avec elles ? Coexister ? Quelle horreur !

Four. FOU. Mis.

Mettons qu’on les tue, ces fous mis à l’épreuve dans la prison de nos corps.

C’est pour mieux les aimer !

Hahahahaha.

Hihihihihihi.

Rigolons un peu :

Alors que je vous écris, Maître, j’apprends qu’il se produit, en ce moment, de graves événements, en Europe, qui confirment, si besoin en était, mes intuitions. Ainsi, selon la ENN et la EBC, des terroristes hollandais en collaboration avec leur collègues suisses lancent des missiles sur les habitants de Neuchâtel. Ces mécréants (pardonnez-moi ce mot excessif Maître—, j’écris sous le coup de l’émotion) ont tué trois personnes. Je ne cesse de dire qu’on ne peut leur faire confiance, je ne cesse de dire qu’ils sont barbares, et pourtant personne ne m’écoute. On me croit un plaisantin, un citoyen-bouffon, alors qu’on n’entend que l’explosion de bombes.

Et nous pouvons aujourd’hui faire le constat que nos indifférences, ils assassinent des vieillards. Qui viendra maintenant nous reprocher d’avoir construit le Mur ? Qui viendra maintenant nous reprocher d’avoir instauré la ségrégation positive ? Où sont-ils, ceux qui osent nous critiquer ? Où se cachent-ils ? Derrière quelle peau de vache ?

J’ai appris, par ailleurs, Maître, que nos troupes ont envahi le camp de Neuchâtel, ils se livrent à un combat impitoyable contre des terroristes. Ces derniers ont pris en otage la population et, ce faisant, ils mettent en péril la vie des innocents. Nos soldats n’ont d’autre choix que de bombarder leurs tanières. Il faut en finir une fois pour toutes avec ces fourmis, Maître. Il faut les exterminer, ces fanatiques. Nos soldats ont donc raison d’agir avec détermination. Le viol, le vol, ce n’est pas volontaire. On n’a pas le luxe de s’élever au-dessus de la mêlée quand on se trouve au cœur de la bataille.

Les âmes bienpensantes affirment que nos troupes se sont montrés excessives mais, dans les circonstances, elles n’ont pas le choix. Il est en effet malheureux de constater que des enfants sont morts, plus d’une vingtaine apparemment. C’est la guerre : que voulez-vous ? On ne peut faire d’omelette sans casser d’œufs. Pourquoi les terroristes se réfugient-ils dans les maisons des civils ? Et on avait prévenu ces derniers, leur avertissant des dangers. Ce peuple souffre indéniablement du complexe du martyre. Ainsi, certains ont choisi de sacrifier leurs enfants (vous avez bien lu Maître, sacrifier leurs enfants). On ne peut guérir un peuple primitif de sa maladie.

Au contraire, saluons, avec votre accord, Maître, nos valeureux soldats, qui se battent à cet instant même pour préserver la vie des innocents. Saluons leur courage, leur abnégation, leur dévouement à ceux qui croient la paix possible. Notre survie dépend d’eux.

Il faut aussi prier, Maître, pour que les Suisses et tous ces peuples qui se croient opprimés comprennent enfin que nous agissons pour leur bien, que nous n’avons qu’un seul but : une nouvelle fraternité à l’aune de l’Emperocratie. Purifiée des fourmis une bonne fois pour toutes.

Un jour, Maître, le Mur cédera sa place aux constellations de la fraternité mais il faut d’abord que ces peuples cessent de pactiser avec le terrorisme. Il est temps qu’ils se débarrassent de l’emprise de philosophies obsolètes, de leurs cultes monothéistes d’un autre temps, qu’ils s’adaptent aux normes civilisatrices de l’Emperocratie. En attendant, la lutte—, impitoyable il est vrai—, continue.

Luttons tous ensemble contre les fourmis !

Dans cette lutte, Maître, je me dois aussi de dénoncer une publication, Medias mensonges et l’Emperocratie, qui se veut provocateur mais qui n’est lui-même qu’un tissus de mensonges. Ce livre se propose de ‘déconstruire le discours dominant de l’Emperocratie, démontrant ainsi la manière dont le langage sert à consolider et à exercer le pouvoir.’ Cet ouvrage mérite l’attention qu’on accorde à un âne en mal d’intelligence. C’est un catalogue de platitudes, mais dont il est important de discuter, étant donné qu’il s’est néanmoins bien vendu. Certains intellectuels bien-pensants osent affirmer que c’est un chef d’œuvre, un livre qui ouvre de nouvelles perspectives sur les relations Emperocratie-Europe et qui nous permet de comprendre ‘les logiques du pouvoir.’ Rien de plus faux.

Je m’explique. L’auteur, qui est, soit dit en passant, un jeune freluquet, nous propose un mini-dictionnaire. Loin de respecter les conventions du genre, ce dictionnaire politique, dont l’objectif est de révéler ‘l’archéologie du discours de l’Empire,’ ne nous mène pas à connaître une nouvelle langue. Le ton est évidemment pompeux ; on en a désormais l’habitude. L’auteur éprouve le besoin d’utiliser des mots grotesques car on sait qu’il se trouvera des adeptes du snobisme intellectuel pour acclamer son vocabulaire insolite. Parmi les nombreux exemples de ses bêtises intellectuelles, la définition que nous propose l’auteur à la page 12 du ‘dommage collatéral.’ On sait bien ce que cela veut dire : en période de guerre, quand on s’en prend aux terroristes, il arrive que d’autres meurent, aussi. Selon l’auteur, ‘dommage collatéral’ est un terme substitué aux mots plus humains, tels que ‘mort’ et ‘personne,’ pour manipuler les esprits, déshumaniser les victimes et justifier la politique impérialiste. Ce serait une tentative de ‘maquiller les véritables desseins de l’Empire.’

Ce jeune auteur a du talent mais ce talent sert à concocter des niaiseries.

Il est vrai que, dans le cadre de notre combat contre ces pseudo-martyres, quelques innocents meurent. On le regrette. Mais nous n’avons pas le choix. Peut-on laisser une maladie ravager un être sous prétexte que le remède a des effets secondaires ? Que doit-on faire ? La guerre est meurtrière. On ne tue pas, contrairement à ce que l’on croit, pour le plaisir. Nos militaires ne sont pas des enfants de chœur. Comment ose-t-on dire que cette terminologie militaire sert à ‘déshumaniser les victimes’ ?

Encore faut-il compter sur les théories du complot : on aurait délibérément inventé ce terme pour justifier notre combat, on aurait tout planifié, tout organisé depuis le début et nos objectifs seraient machiavéliques. Cet intellectuel, et il n’est pas le seul, se veut un spécialiste des complots imaginaires. Selon lui, le ‘terrorisme’ signifie véritablement ‘résistance.’ Je dois vous avouer que j’ai failli m’étouffer en lisant cette tartufferie. J’ai dû boire un fleuve d’eau. Mais comment ce jeune monsieur ose-t-il associer des criminels aux résistants ? La résistance désigne le combat contre l’axe du Mal, le souci de la Justice et la quête du Bien. Comment ose-t-il vociférer de la sorte alors que le péril européen est à nos portes ? Alors qu’ils n’attendent qu’une chose : nous envahir, pour ensuite proliférer sur nos terres. Celui qui détonne une bombe dans un supermarché serait-il un résistant ? Et celui qui tue un enfant ?

Nos chers intellectuels sont tous les mêmes, Maître. Toujours à argumenter, toujours à vouloir prouver qu’ils savent plus que les autres, toujours à répandre leur vomi et leur verbiage alors que des gens crèvent. Je m’emporte, Maître, mais ma colère est légitime, l’enjeu est trop grave et on ne doit pas laisser de telles idées se glisser dans les corps. Il n’est qu’une vérité : un combat oppose le Bien au Mal, un combat oppose ceux qui veulent le règne des Lumières de l’Emperocratie aux fanatiques des Ombres du Mal.

On peut chipoter à propos des mots, en discuter pendant des heures et même des siècles, on peut trouver qu’un vocable convient mieux qu’un autre, mais les faits demeurent. Ce n’est pas une fiction qu’on fabrique dans son salon après un bon dîner, un verre de vin à la main, ce n’est pas un jeu dont l’objectif est de se montrer plus futés que les autres, ce n’est rien de tout ça, Maître. La mort est à nos trousses, le sang gicle déjà, la barbarie se propage pendant que les intellectuels lèvent un verre à une boutade.

Un corps qui se meurt n’est pas une théorie de l’esprit. Et voici le paradoxe : alors même que les intellectuels tentent de subvertir l’Empire, leurs droits fondamentaux sont préservés. Ils sont libres d’écrire, d’exprimer leurs idées, les plus folles soient-elles. Au sein de l’Empire règne la liberté d’expression. N’est-ce pas le signe le plus évident de sa grandeur ?

Et les maudites fourmis ne vont pas s’en prendre à sa grandeur, hein ?

Chantons. Qui tue les fourmis ?

Qui les tue ?

M.O.I. M.O.I.

C’est moi qui les tue à coup de gros couteau. Mon beau couteau. Dans mon corps. Dans celui de mon maître.

Hahaha. Hihihihi.

Mais revenons à nos moutons pourris.

Interrogeons, Maître, une critique émise à l’égard de l’Emperocratie, qui exploiterait, selon certains, les pays de la périphérie. La thèse est la suivante : depuis la découverte du Xqz en 2114, une matière qu’on ne trouve qu’en Europe, l’Empire aurait mis sur pied des stratagèmes pour avoir accès à cette précieuse ressource (qui sert surtout dans les domaines quantique et aérospatial), mais en abusant des droits des Européens. Selon un rapport publié par Emperocraty, des entrepreneurs Emperocrates seraient coupables ‘d’asservir et de dominer’ les Européens. Emperocraty évoque la servitude, le retour aux temps féodaux, des Européens réduits à travailler pour une pitance, blessés ou assassinés quand ils osent se révolter. Moi, je ne suis pas homme à me laisser séduire par la déraison et le pouvoir. Ces histoires ne me font pas marcher.

Rétablissons d’abord les faits. Les grands chercheurs de l’Emperocratie ont découvert les fabuleux pouvoirs du Xqz. En effet, c’est grâce à la Révolution Xqz  qu’on est parvenus à coloniser Mars et à augmenter considérablement l’espérance de vie, jusqu’à deux cents ans. Soutenus par des entrepreneurs, nos chercheurs n’ont eu d’autre choix que se rendre en France et en Espagne pour exploiter ce minéral. Etant donné que le Xqz est enfoui profondément sous terre, il a été nécessaire d’avoir recours à la main d’œuvre européenne, très douée, comme on le sait, pour les travaux manuels. Et, dans l’ensemble, cela se passe sans hic. L’Européen est un être chaleureux et jovial, il lui faut le minimum pour être heureux : de l’argent, de la piquette et de la bouffe. Nos entrepreneurs, qui sont des hommes inspirés, ont su les chouchouter en leur procurant un très bon salaire et d’excellentes conditions de travail. Il n’a jamais été question d’exploitation, l’Emperocratie a toujours eu à cœur les intérêts des peuples de la périphérie.

Des entrepreneurs Emperocrates se sont montrés parfois excessifs, mais on peut mettre cela sur le compte de l’enthousiasme. Comment ne pas se réjouir quand on entend le chant lointain des univers parallèles ? Il est indéniable que des abus ont été commis et que l’association Emperocraty n’a pas tout à fait tort. Cela dit, on utilise des termes qui sont, à mon avis, incorrects, comme par exemple, ‘quasi-esclavage’ ou ‘subjugation.’ Au même titre que nos intellectuels bien-pensants, cette association souffre de la bougeotte des mots.

Pardonnez-moi, Maître, de vous assommer de toutes mes réflexions. Cette lettre qui devait être concis s’est transformée en un torrent de mots. Mais l’heure est grave et tout citoyen se doit d’exprimer son opinion. On ne pourra pas un jour dire qu’on ne savait pas. Il y a ceux, Maître, qui sont naïfs, trop épris de leurs égoïsmes ; d’autres comprennent mais, lâches, ils préfèrent se taire.

L’Histoire se souviendra de leur silence de moutons.

De ceux qui se sont laissé bouffer par les fourmis. De ceux qui ne les pas ont pas extirpées du corps de leur prochain. De ceux qui n’ont pas fait hihihihi.

Puis hahahahaha.

Puis hihihihi.

Puis hahahaha.

Les fourmis puent. Mais l’argent n’a pas d’odeur.

Voilà un autre problème : celui des rapports économiques avec l’Occident. On sait que, pour ce qui est Etats-Unis, ce terme d’économie ne convient hélas plus. Une guerre insensée opposant les Rouges aux Bleus depuis plus de deux siècles, ce pays est à genoux. Selon nos critiques, ces fourmis glutineuses, lovées au sein même de l’Empire, l’Emperocratie pratique une politique économique impérialiste qui vise à imposer aux pays de la périphérie le modèle de l’Emperocapitalisme, qui a pourtant fait ses preuves. Celui-ci n’est pas, comme on le prétend, contraire à leurs intérêts. Il ne les exploite pas par l’intermédiaire de nos deux institutions les plus nobles : la Banque Emperocratique et le Fonds Empecrotique. Rien de plus faux, une fois de plus.

À qui donc est-ce que l’Emperocratie doit sa réussite ? Question toute simple, toute bête, à laquelle il est important de répondre. La méconnaissance de l’histoire est à l’origine de tous nos problèmes. Et quelle en est la réponse, messieurs dames les intellectuels bien-pensants ? L’Emperocapitalisme qui permet une croissance rapide tout en atténuant les inégalités, qui est fondé sur une connaissance intime et précise de la nature humaine, qui puise dans les qualités de notre peuple et qui est, aujourd’hui, indépassable. On peut certes améliorer ce modèle—, la perfection n’est pas, Maître, de ce monde—, mais on ne peut s’en passer. Dire le contraire c’est vouloir retourner à l’époque de la Grande Crise.

Soucieux des peuples pauvres, l’Emperocapitalisme a mis sur pied une politique d’aide exigeant que ces pays s’adaptent aux normes articulées autour quatre grands axes (1) Autoriser les entrepreneurs de l’Emperocapitalisme d’investir dans ces pays, en créant les infrastructures requises et en établissant des lois qui facilitent l’investissement. (2) Faire la part belle à l’entreprenariat et s’attaquer au problème du parasitisme, c’est-à-dire à la fainéantise de ces gens qui ne veulent rien faire et qui dépendent de l’état. En somme, il faut cesser de donner des chèques en blanc à ceux qui refusent de travailler, qui font trop d’enfants, qui sont paresseux, qui n’investissent pas dans l’éducation de leurs enfants, qui pratiquent une culture du je-m’en-foutisme. (3) Réaliser des réformes structurelles (notamment la privatisation des secteurs clés de l’économie) sous la haute autorité des instances internationales. (4) Implanter une pratique de l’éthique de l’Emperocratie, difficilement inculquée aux Européens, des êtres encore primaires dans leur ensemble. Rappelons quelques aspects essentiels de l’éthique : Travail, Discipline, Rigueur, Originalité, Respect de l’Empereur, Vénération de l’Empereur, Patriotisme, Respect de l’ordre et des hiérarchies.

L’Empereur aurait pu se contenter de laisser les pays pauvres se morfondre dans la fange. Il a choisi, au contraire, de les épauler. Mais les pays pauvres doivent faire preuve de patience. Bien que la pilule soit difficile à avaler, au bout de quelques décennies, ils récolteront tous les fruits de leurs efforts. Si on suit toutes nos directives à la lettre, un nouveau monde émergera. Et qui osera alors parler d’exploitation, qui osera dire que notre modèle économique sert les intérêts des riches, quand l’Europe aura retrouvée sa prospérité d’antan ? Qui se souviendra des premières mines du Xqz ?

Au bout du compte, on mangera à sa faim.

Tout le reste n’est qu’histoire.

Il est clair que certains de nos critiques sombrent depuis longtemps dans la paranoïa et qu’ils ont perdu tout contact avec la réalité. On serait porté à croire que l’Emperocratie est une omniscience divine, sinon diabolique, qu’elle a tous les pouvoirs, qu’elle peut s’immiscer partout. C’est un ogre qui voit tout, qui entend tout, niché dans le cœur de tout individu.

Mais revenons donc à ces accusateurs. Qui sont-ils ? Les théoriciens du complot croient avoir raison, ils ont la foi, une foi que rien, ni personne ne peut ébranler. Selon eux, l’Empire a instauré des frontières ayant attisé des haines, ne prenant pas en considération les réalités ethniques des pays concernés. Fictives et dangereuses, ces frontières obéiraient à la logique coloniale. Comme les fervents d’une nouvelle religion, les théoriciens du complot reprennent donc cet adage de la vieille Angleterre, divide and conquer.

Rétablissons donc les faits. Pourquoi est-ce que vous avons dessiné une nouvelle ligne séparant la France de l’Espagne ? Messieurs dames les complotistes, nous avons ciselé ces nouvelles frontières parce que les tribus de ces deux pays maintenant sous tutelle se livraient à une bataille infernale dans le désir d’occuper le même territoire sur la carte. Il fallait gérer cette guerre intestine de peuples en mal de paix. Depuis notre intervention, nos citoyens peuvent y émigrer sans crainte, ils y apportent nos lumières tout en facilitant le transit de l’Xqz, aujourd’hui indispensable au progrès, comme vous le savez, Maître.

Certains vont jusqu’à prétendre qu’il faut encourager l’immigration provenant de l’Europe. Mais a-t-on réfléchi aux conséquences ? Pendant combien de temps, Maître, est-ce que nos concitoyens devront subir ces aficionados de la culture des frites et de la bière ? Le nombre démentiel d’immigrés occidentaux dans nos terres provoque une lente et insidieuse occidentalisation des mœurs. À cet avilissement, nous proposons l’alternative suivante : une immigration sélective. On dispose de techniques sophistiquées nous permettant quasi instantanément de déterminer le profil génétique de chaque individu. L’Occidental est avant tout un être charnel mais, grâce à ce test effectué en quelques minutes, on peut savoir si tel ou tel extra-altern fait inhabituellement preuve d’Emperorationalité—, condition essentielle, vous en conviendrez, pour intégrer notre civilisation.

Il nous faut agir, il en va de l’équilibre de l’Emperocratie. Aujourd’hui, on leur permet d’ouvrir un bar occidental, demain on leur permettra d’instaurer leur système juridique d’inspiration religieuse.

Il faut se méfier des Four. Mis. Maître. Ils colonisent l’Empire petit à petit de l’intérieur.

Enfin, l’Emperocratie n’est pas et ne sera jamais ‘antireligieux.’ Elle est au contraire convaincue que la diversité religieuse permet l’épanouissement de l’humain. Il est donc d’autant plus malheureux de constater que nos amis les Européens ont abusé de notre générosité, étant dans leur grande majorité des adeptes de l’Europat. Ce nouveau culte, ayant émergé au début du vingt-deuxième siècle, est fort admirable pour ce qui est de ses enseignements spirituels. À maintes reprises, nous avons invité les Europats à procéder à une relecture de leurs textes sacrés, lesquels véhiculent un message de paix et de dénuement.  Leurs leaders et fidèles restent néanmoins sourds à nos appels. Au sein des communautés européennes, on constate au contraire l’émergence des Europatistes, qui prônent une lecture littéraliste des textes sacrés et qui cherchent à instrumentaliser la religion comme une arme politique. Prenant de l’ampleur, l’Europatisme recrute de nombreux adeptes parmi les jeunes Européens et au sein même de nos terres.

Il ne faut pas se leurrer, Maître. L’Europatisme récuse toutes les valeurs de l’Emperocratie, il est rétrograde, il fanatise les foules, il relègue l’Europe dans les eaux boueuses de la barbarie. Au sein de l’Europe, au cœur de l’Empire, des milliers d’Europats tissent la toile de leur mépris sanguinaire. Demain, ils érigeront des lieux de prière dans l’Empire, ils obligeront nos femmes à porter la mini-jupe, ils nous obligeront à étudier leurs langues vulgaires, à obéir à leurs lois obsolètes, à coller des chips gras et infectes au palais de la bouche, à participer à leurs guerres tribales et à leurs cérémonies frivoles, ils ramèneront l’Emperocratie à l’ère des Obscurités. La seule stratégie plausible est la fermeté. On ne peut ni négocier avec des maniaques religieux ni dialoguer avec des terroristes. Il faut combattre le feu par le feu.

Vous me pardonnerez, Maître, de vous avoir écrit une si longue lettre. C’est le cœur blessé d’un citoyen ordinaire qui s’exprime. Je sais que vous ne cessez d’œuvrer pour le bien-être de l’Empire, vous êtes son timonier et sa lumière. Il est pourtant évident que des forces maléfiques, jalouses et vengeresses ont procédé à une alliance dont l’objectif est l’annihilation de l’Empire et l’instauration d’un régime barbare.

L’heure est à l’urgence.

Nous voulons instaurer l’utopie, Maître, d’un nouveau monde. Sans fourmis cachées dans le corps des innocents. Un monde qui fera sien la culture de l’Emperocratie et qui cherchera sa perfection en tous lieux. Un nouveau jour se fera. Il y aura une seule et unique humanité réunie sous la volonté de l’Empereur.

Mais la fourmi occidentale est parmi nous, elle attend son heure, elle saura quoi faire pour nous dévorer, elle est insidieuse et, si on ne réagit pas fermement, l’Empire succombera à sa voracité. Les Four. Mis. sont bien là, Maître. Je les vois trop bien. Elles sont là. Comme des milliers de petites pilules qui vont nous avaler.  Et je les vois, Maître, je les vois qui arrivent, les Fourmisdentaux, les taux qui montent, les taux qui descendent et les fourmis qui zigzaguent, déguisés en hommes, gluants et puants, et je les vois, ils arrivent en leur beau déguisement d’insecte de couleurs marbrées, ces fourmis glutineuses et pestilentielles, et les Occidentaux, taux, taux, taux vont nous dévorer, ils vont s’infiltrer dans le corps de l’Emperocratie, et ils sont nombreux, des millions, des milliards, des multi-milliards, ils arrivent, à toute allure, les voyez-vous, Maître ? Voraces, ils sont affamés et ils vont détruire L’Emperocratie, vont tout manger de l’intérieur, ils vont nous miner, vont manger à leur faim l’Xqz de nos entrailles.

On va s’amuser : un coup de couteau par-ci, un coup de couteau par là. Tra la la la, chantons ensemble. Allez, on chante. Vous voulez chanter, Maître ? Un coup de couteau par-ci, un coup de couteau par là. Faut pas brûler les livres. Pas de complot dans mes songes et nul mensonge dans les merveilles de notre génie, Maître. Dans le fond, le masque est la peau et la peau masque la mort et il faut les cuire ensemble.

Plus fort.  Coup par-ci, coup par là. Dans la mâchoire. Hahahaha. La mâchoire de qui ? De l’empereur.

Pourquoi faire ? Pour en finir avec les fourmis aux dents pourries. Pour diviser. Pour conquérir. On ne se laissera pas faire ! Maître n’a pas que ça dans le ventre. Veuillez admirer notre Ordinatrix. Et marchez, voulez-vous, Maître, vers ce four où les cendres sont de la poudre anti-âge. Que reste-t-il de nos amours ? Vieille chanson. Et je ch.An.|Te. F.O. >urmis  Pour en finir avec les Fourmidentaux.

Dans votre panse, Maître, votre pensée, les fourmis. Je vais les extirper, les ex-triper, les faire triper sur la zique. Je les tue. Je vous TUE. Tous. A vos marques. Prêts. Chantez ! Hahahaha. Hihihihi. Des centaines. Des milliers. Hommes ou FOURMIS. Je ne sais plus. Et je suis une fourmi, la plus grosse, la plus gluante et je pue parce que je suis un four à l’eau et au moulin chantons car nous brûlons ensemble tra la la. Bientôt vous, le vôtre, M.a.it.re. Hahahahaha. Ohohoh. Elles a ri. Vent. Rivent. Elles sont en mo.i.moi. Hohoho. Je est un est une Four. Mi. Etes-vous four.mi ? A vos marques. Prêts. Brûlez !

Hahahahah

Hihihihihi

Ils s’en viennent et ils en viennent à nous détruire, ils vont nous bouffer en friture, il faut les ENFERMER dans des camps, faut les TUER, ce sont des bébêtes trop bêtes, nous sommes des moutons trop Panurge et mon frère est une fourmis trop morte.

Hahahahah

Hihihihihihi

…. mais, chhhut, ne riez pas, vous allez leur faire peur.

Vive l’Empereur !

Vive l’Emperocratie !

The post Lettre d’un Citoyen Engagé à L’Empereur du Grand Empire (année 2560 après Jésus-Christ) appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

1

• Initial Disquietude.
• How easily people claim their actions are directed by the will of God.

• Initial Question.
• Why do people so abuse this phrase?

• Second Question.
• What was wrong with Adam and Eve eating fruit from the Tree of Knowledge?

• Initial Error.
• Adam and Eve thought they could know. The Tree of Knowledge gave them, they thought, true vision. Seeing is knowledge. Knowledge is power. It is control. Seeing gives you the impression that you have a method for control, for obtaining power.

• Analogy #1.
• This is the mode of the Panopticon. If you keep prisoners constantly visible, then you have complete control over them. A prisoner completely visible is one that you perfectly know and so can perfectly control.

• Analogy #2.
• In India, the British colonial authorities maintained control over the subcontinent not just, or merely, by arms but also through records. The British were prodigious record-keepers. A prime example of this is Phillip Sleeman and his successful prosecution campaigns, most importantly in 1829-30, against highway robbers loosely known as Thugs.

• Sleeman was able to almost eliminate highway murders after he began taking profuse notes on the criminals brought into custody. Through his note-taking, the scope of the crimes became visible.

• Through his informants, he compiled information (reality made visible through notation) that he used to suppress crime. This sort of documenting was among the important means the British used for controlling colonial India: note-taking making visible, the visible being categorized, then these categories being controlled through effective administration.

2

• Analogical Error #1.
• If in the case of Adam and Eve, this presumption to know was an error as it created a false confidence about knowing something, the will of God, which remains rationally unknowable (this is, however, the paradoxical power of the idea of the will of God—its unknowability), so how does this error reconcile with the British success as colonial administrators? How does it reconcile with the apparent success of the Victorian Panopticon as a mode of controlling criminals?

• Concession #1.
• It doesn’t reconcile. British colonialism and the Victorian Panopticon were successful in ways that Adam and Eve’s eating of the Tree of Knowledge was not.

• Will of God Analogy #1.
• If the will of God is always unknowable, even if to subjects it seems apparent, even if it maintains the illusion of appearance, then the objects within the two analogies, the criminals and the Indian populace, who are treated as though fully seen by the Panopticon’s wardens and by the British in their respective cases, are never fully grasped.

• The seer misapprehends their vision because the criminal, though fully apparent, cannot be known by outward means alone. Likewise, the Indian populace, despite whatever exhaustive notation may be used to describe it, cannot be contained by categorical representations.

• Orientalism Quotes #1 and 2, Edward Said.
• “[...] the real issue is whether indeed there can be a true representation of anything, or whether any and all representations, because they are representations, are embedded first in the language and then in the culture, institutions, and political ambiance of the representer.” 272

• “[...] the role of positive knowledge is far from absolute. Rather, ‘knowledge’—never raw, unmediated, or simply objective—is what [...] Orientalist [thought] distribute[s] and redistribute[s].” 273-4

• Will of God Analogy, Cont’d.
• The criminal is never fully suppressed.

• India is never truly understood. It would not be understood even on its own terms, as no terms can ever be fully representative of such a large and various country.

3

• Perversion, Linking to Initial Disquietude.
• Those who claim to know the will of God are always wrong. After winning a sporting event, those who claim it was the will of God are wrong, though this claim does have its comic rewards. This is the original delusion, the primary human flaw, the presumption of knowing what by definition is meaningful only when not known.

• Answer to Second Question.
• It’s not wrong intellectually to aspire toward knowing the unknowable, but spiritually, it might prove fruitless or worse.

• Deleterious Consequences, Analogies Revisit’d.
• In the Panopticon, the warden enforces his claim to knowledge. Believing himself fully knowledgeable about the criminal, he treats the criminal as he imagines he must be treated, and yet this is always wrong. This action is always premised on a false conception of who the criminal is. And yet the criminal, from being treated in a particular way, begins to act that way. The criminal has changed. He has partially lost sense of his secret, unknowable identity and has been co-opted into becoming what he is not.

• So too the Indian populace. Never fully understood by the British, the Indian populace changed under the British gaze, changed due to the categorical adumbrations of Orientalist scholarship and colonial bureaucracy. This perverted what was real into a new order conducive to being ruled by a colonial power, indifferent or ambivalent to Indian self-determination.

• Postscript.
• So the first, practical efficacy of seeing, though in time its categorizing dimensions become a corrupting lens that eventually returns the seers to themselves.

• Result.
• Postcolonial reflux syndrome.

The post Poetry, by Matt Reeck appeared first on The Postcolonialist.

• Dawn, the sooty film on that cherub’s face
• Two years, some months, a quantum of days –
• I guessed—engrossed in his joyful waddle

• Through the gutter, I follow this potbellied nude
• Who licks the humid air with tongue and giggles
• Playing alone, at this hour where stillness is life
• He moves. I flounder in tears, touch my stomach.

• I, with him, move carefully passed sleeping cabs
• Under the frail doting arms of rickshaws and masters
• We crawl.  Two stealthy bodies heaving of cardamom
• Of chaa and cane sugar we are made—untouchable

• Temporal. I watch a woman rise as she gathers her wares
• Plucks the playful cherub.  A nomaashkaar and the city wakes
• Car horns, spinning wheels, screams push me to light.
• Across I see his plump body swaddled in his mother’s sari.

• I hope his dreams can withstand mourning.

The post Poetry, by Pradine Saint-Fort appeared first on The Postcolonialist.