The Arabic Language
The way I see the Arabic language, is with a passion so urgent, incomprehensible and worrisome to others, and then to myself. As I close my eyes every night, I can see the nomads making their way through the desert, ushering the TH, KH, GH, and H, unknowingly causing chaos and havoc among the foreigners. You see, the foreigners have never had the privilege of this mother tongue, enabling them to survive in the driest of conditions. Whether it be the restless camel, or sun too hot, the nomads huddle together to weave a carpet, for a coin or two. The earning of coins, unlike the foreigners, is merely a pastime for these minimalists. You see, they need not money, money is not the issue. They merely need their companions to laugh and eat collectively, be it sand, as they make their way through this desert, only to end up at another.
Al Arabi goes beyond the calligraphic design of script, hand drawn with the darkest of kohl, in caves only known to the nomads. The very same kohl that she uses to mark her eyes as the only entrance to her identity, conscience, and spirit, a richer black than the Abaya she drapes herself in secrecy. This script goes beyond the sound of Oud, Riq, and Darbouka, to the synchronized voices of men and women, echoing less by direction and more by indication of heart. Only the nomads can understand this language, and need nothing more for survival in the poorest of conditions, other than a collective dance around her, who slithers her hips from side to side, around the fire ablaze. Even if the fire smoulders, as gusts of wind thrust sand in the pit, glistening of the hand sought gold on her Bedlah is enough to pass this night. At least, we are together. No urgency of time. No urgency of destination.
Naturally, my feet move towards the soft sewn Persian carpet, for all other surfaces have been too rough, and I am tired of enduring the pain. Guided by the essence of Oudh, Amber, and Black Musk attar, I will stop only when I too, have acquired the nib of my own existence, and drilled my journey into the walls of these caves. Somewhere amongst the Islamic tiling, this will appear as poetry to you, but for me, this is acknowledgement of the identity I was originally not born with.
Influencing the Other
When Boaz died, something unraveled inside me, alongside hymns of the Arabian flute. It felt as though the sand dust was real and its particles were flying toward me, barely grazing the side of my frozen cheek. Having well heard, read, and studied discourses of terrorism, Boaz’s blown skull still gave me enough adrenaline to keep my heart racing this week. The higher I felt, the more bloody, graphic, and sensual images I longed. Now, terrorism exists, but make not the mistake of associating this horror with the religion of Islam or the Middle Eastern culture, for it exists also in the South, West, and North. Fauda, successfully and unsuccessfully, captured terrorism amongst the Arabs and Jews in the town of Ramallah, a Palestinian City located 10km north of Jerusalem. Screenplay of this Israeli-Palestinian conflict has power enough to influence those who still have a clean slate and innocent curiosity towards Islam and the Middle East.
THE WOMEN: Of course, there must be at least one woman within the Israeli Special Forces unit; otherwise the series would lack minority inclusion and at least efforts towards gender equality. However, this woman must be emotionally vulnerable on the battlefield and fail to perform attacks upon men. I cringed when women called upon healers to soothe the wounds of injured men on the opposition. Also, when women left for home because they were unable to tolerate cruelty inflicted upon men of the opposite, I felt uncomfortable.
“How do you men just attack someone, without feeling any remorse or emotion?”
“When we receive orders, we do not think of our emotions. Rather, we focus to execute. If you are unable to put aside your emotions, then you do not belong here.”
Men would approach her door when they were most wounded, most hurt. When family would not accept them or when war was not in their favor, they would smoke a cigar and sleep with a woman. Of course, these women would begin to love them deeply, without any question or need of reciprocation. Such has been the depiction of women, not just within this series but well knowingly, enough to have women internalize such characteristics as their norm.
THE CLOTHING: Men, wearing the hijab and dressed as women, seemed to use this masking strategy repeatedly to enter a forbidden location for the attack. Without question, or by minimum screening, they were allowed into festive events. Use of this traditionally conservative outfit to perform terrorist attacks only promotes fear and uncertainty towards female attire- a social justice phenomenon already present in the world of today. Naturally, one would glance twice at a woman dressed in black, covered head to toe, and crossing the sidewalk after witnessing the outfit’s association to terrorist acts. Moving forth, it was a ritual for the lead terrorist, Abu Ahmed (The Panther), to wrap his face in a Keffiyeh (a Middle Eastern headdress, fashioned from a square scarf) prior to executing his attacks. What is the likelihood of depicting the Keffiyeh as a terrorist accessory by those who know nothing more about its origins and value, in other worlds?
THE LANGUAGE: Having political involvement in foreign mass attacks has become the norm, especially here in the United States. Often, the decisive key lies with he who holds most power, be it the pastor, saint, president, or prime minister. Hence, I was not surprised seeing the Sheikh conduct a suicide bombing or hearing the terrorist team murmur “Allahu Akbar” before every, single, attack. In fact, upon every killing, the team performed prayers to have the deceased rest in peace. Attend to such dangerous portrayals of a mosque and Islamic prayer and perhaps, one may find justifiable, the apprehension towards the religion of Islam or idealism of the mosque as a suitable place to conduct harm, within those who know nothing better.
The Nai Syrian Children’s Choir
A choir.
The Syrian refugee children performed a choir in sequence to charm the individual promoting their move to Canada- understandable. Of course, if a group is to gift someone as a way of thanking them, it must be aligned with their preference, lifestyle and taste. Therefore, the Syrian children gathered to sing these Canadian tunes in a highly Christianized fashion despite being in a “multicultural” country. Canada, known to be “multicultural” is acting within democratic racism while having the refugees conjoin in western choir as the only way to please the prime minister. It is truly this phenomenon or it is the framing of this article that may lead one to believe so.
A choir, historically known to be performed in churches as a religious component, was designated to the Syrian youth. The youth gathered to perform classical and original songs in the House of Commons- what songs? Which songs did the youth perform (Oh, Canada)? Did the youth have an opportunity to integrate their cultural tunes within culturally imperialistic Canadian songs?
As the article mentions- “all while strengthening their English”, the songs were most obviously sang in the oppressor’s language rather than Arabic or at least, a combination of the two. Moreover, singing songs in the sole language of English allowed Syrian youth the privileged opportunity to “express their grief, yearning, love and hope”. How? How could singing songs in English reduce any feelings of war-related, abusive and traumatizing experiences? How could praising Canada surpass the longing for cultural heritage, family and native community?
While reading this, I imagined Canada to be a country dispersed with bombs. Alas, after many efforts, London provided a new settlement opportunity in a safe environment. I was ever so delighted of being welcomed to a country known to respect my culture. A few days after arrival, the settlement company placed me with a group of Canadian students, all fleeing traumatic conditions and guided me to sing in a British accent. Singing in a British accent, the hymns of English folks, would allow me to express gratitude for London and remorse over the loss of my country. Overtime, I will learn to undermine the Canadian way of life. Moreover, I will completely forget I ever knew Punjabi or Hindi.
Surprisingly, the Liberal MP, Arif Virani as well as Toronto’s CultureLink settlement agency for newcomers encouraged choir formation and singing. Arif Virani, an Ismaili Muslim and Ugandan refugee himself, served governmental intentions to “nationalize” newcomers by supporting this act. Curiously, I wondered what his experience pertaining to settlement, racism and assimilation must have been like? Was this Arif Virani based on personal morals and experiences or Arif Virani, servant of the powerful? Was Virani supporting cultural submission to help refugees better navigate the Canadian systems? Clearly, the settlement service had goals of cultural assimilation by promoting patriarchal songs rather than culturally sensitive integration. Moreover, the settlement service circulated the choir performance throughout Twitter and Facebook channels, highlighting the loyalty and faithfulness of refugee youth towards Canada- as if they were forever obligated to praise the country in exchange for safety. Such services, being the initial place of contact for newcomers, are actually demonstrating cultural oppression on behalf of Canada.
Most strikingly, a reader’s comment on the bottom of the page wrote: “playing flute for the cobra”. Seemingly, the reader was making a connection to the cobra being pleased by the flute and hence, dancing upon its tunes- as if the hymns were serving the master ~