Rehearsing

One day during a rehearsal
for a play I was participating in
the guard erupted in the middle of a scene
which had set off the smoke signals
He said nobody should move
he thought there was some kind of amenaza.
When it was my turn to appear
the director said,
Y ahora la terrorista musulmana
I wanted to scream Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar,
but instead I said, "Let´s start with our class on Europe".

My friend wanted to know if I was the only hijabee
in the gym
in the gym, the instructor wanted to know
why I didn´t show my hair
I told her it had to do with how we understood sexuality
She made me do twenty more sit-ups
I was not convinced.

Damages

My friend told me he was victimised in a
"friendly way" during his trip to India.
the families he met all wanted to take pictures
with him when he said he was European.
he was perplexed.
they didn´t even know me, he added.
He termed it "friendly attacks"
I preferred collateral damage.

Prohibiciones y Transgresiones

Alcohol was prohibited for them
no sabes lo que pierdes
no sabes lo que pierdes
no sabes lo que pierdes
el se reventó de jamón
ella se hartó de alcohol
they wanted to know
what they were missing.

la mujer franquista

He told me his landlady was a franquista
who opposed the removal
of Franco´s signos
that still haunted Spain
she said that if they removed his busts
they should also get rid of Seguridad Social
which Franco also introduced.

Encrucijada

Feliz Navidad, said the jolly Christians
Feliz Hanuka, responded the jewish couple
A fight broke off
Feliz Hanuka, said the Christian, was when the jews killed Christ
the muslim intervened
he didn´t said Mabrouk Eid,
he tried to break up the fight
the Jew was grateful, yet perplexed
Un joven musulmán que se mete y ayuda a un judío en Hanuka.
esto es un milagro,
the papers reported him saying.
The muslim insisted it was nothing,
he was doing his duty as a human being,
that was how his parents had raised him,
but he was being dubbed a hero
for it seemed this act really was a miracle
in HanukaEidNavidad.

prolonged stay

Whenever she met a Spaniard
after asking how long she was in spain
he/she would usually ask if she intended to stay.
once a viejo verde in the metro told her
he happily welcomed all the
foreign women to Spain
but the men, he thought,
should stay out.
he didn´t want them there.

Atentado in Algiers

She was in the never-ending cola
waiting in the cold
to get her autorización de regreso
she fast became the beacon and help desk
for those women who thought
she was one of them-
hijabbed, therefore muslim and mora
each time she politely responded
in her español con acento
that she didn´t speak nor understand
al arabiya
the girl next to her smiled
she was simpática.
she told the girl she was going to visit Algeria
the girl suddenly pointed to the floor
the headlines of one of those newspapers
they hand out in the metro- ADN-
highlighted the terrorist attack in Algiers.
there were two atentados
the oficina de la ONU was destroyed.
alot of muertos,
hundreds injured
the petite indígena,
vendedora
unknowingly trampled on the page
she was selling chiclé, chocolate, cigarrillos
The girl in the line had a bizarre expression on her face
she turned to me and said,
September 11, March 11,
now December 11.
Why? She wanted to know.
She seeemed to be waiting for an answer

Making sense of nonesense

Flat-hunting-
coloured and Muslim:
sticky combination
with a foreign accent
she presented herself for an interview
the landlady retorted-
"Pensé que eras normal"
she replied- me too!

......

she was asked how come she was so "morena"
she replied, how come you´re so "blanca"?

..............

the child looked at her fascinated
he turned to his mother and said-
mamá, that woman "está pintada de barro"
i want a mask like that for Halloween
the mother half-smiled.

.....

Ramadan nights
she was having "iftar" in
a
Moroccan circle.
they wanted to know if she had
her "papeles".

.....

She found a job
was happy to share her elation
she said proudly- "tengo trabajo"
her friend replied, "¿como doméstica?"

......

Her "jefa" told her she was
suspicious of "moros";
they raped and pillaged Spain
under Franco
"Tengo verguenza de los marroquíes", she said.
that´s why she was patiently waiting for her
"nacionalidad española"

........

She didn´t understand why i didn´t
eat
"pincho moruno"
i didn´t eat "cerdo", that´s all.
she couldn´t understand
the customs of "esa gente", she told her neigbour.
"they want to be españoles,
but they didn´t like jamón ibérico".

.......

She politely said she didn´t drink alcohol
"not even a bit of wine?", she was asked
No, she repeated, she didn´t drink alcohol
the turrón contained alcohol
so they decided not to tell her.

Tea in Lavapies

She was dining at an Indian restaurant serviced by Bangladeshis. She insisted on having Pakistani tea.. the waiter didn´t understand. Was she Paquistaní? No, she was of Indian origin, raised in the Caribbean Isles, whose ancestors were Indians. She smiled. The waiter still didn´t understand but quickly brought her the chai spice milk tea she requested.

old jottings

Some pieces i discovered in an old scrapbook by an immigrant woman who lived in spain around the year 2008. These pieces seem very outdated. To think how far we have come, but to think so many things still remain the same...

She entered the Corte Inglés
she felt misplaced
what could she buy?
With her mere
20 euros?
she looked the attendant
in the eye
shy, ashamed,
uncomfortable
she wanted a cream to remove
the blemishes
left on her face
one that wasn´t too expensive,
she quickly added.
she knew it…
it was better to live with the blemishes
these scars
that reminded her
of her
situación como extranjera,
that she was an immigrant.

What does it mean to be discoloured?
I mean- NOT WHITE
It´s having looks of empathy thrown your way
It is those looks of suspicion
that follow your footsteps like
a
haunting
shadow
it
is
that
silence
of the imcomprehensible.
A strangeness
You feel like a
pieza mal situada
stuck
with
room
to manoeuvre
You breathe
but the air seems to be the accomplice
of this white world
you contemplate
suicide
but you feel it´s a white solution
you listen to music
they say it seems to help the brain
you feel brainwashed
you try to wash the brain
now you are empty,
clean
drained
and
all
alone
just where you had started.

She was polka dot
Yes
Her face was spotted black and white
Like all her life.
But only polka dot
Was no longer fashionable.

They were curious about her
A hijabbed woman
Attending
Documentaries detailing the abuses against homosexuals
And denouncing their discrimination.
They wanted to know who she was
Wasn´t it contradictory to be
Visibly Muslim and liberal?
It was like the Opus Dei
claiming they are homosexuals, they told her.
It just did not fit.
Would she force her children to
Wear the hijab?,
they wanted to know.
How come she was so similar to them?

_____________________
She was already travelling
So she replied calmly,
You know..
Islam has a lot of matices
…too many nuances..

She walked into the expositionEntitledOcultos
Hidden
She was exposed,
In fact, she was covered
There were photographs of
Culos
from different cultures,
angles and
perspectives
it was an exposition of bottoms
the comisaria came up to her
bemusedandasked
Dime, ¿ te gusta la exposición?
Pues, muy interesante, she replied.
Then she was startled-
¿Te gusta nuestra cultura?
Do you like our culture?
So she said, after some thought,
Me gusta la cultura universal,
Universal culture appeals to me..

She was brown-skinned
Pimply faced
She wore a hijab
She was misunderstood
She wore it half-way
Revealing yet concealing
She was ridiculed
She felt invisible
Unattractive
Like a wall painting one looked at with indifference
Sometimes with scorn or discomfort
for there were spots of dirt, filth
it was discoloured.
She would look at all the white faces looking at her
Each one different
Each one beautiful
So beautiful, she thought
She could admire
Its immaculate impeccable perfection
Without blinking…
The black-brown-yellow skins
were undesirable.
they were tarnished
with poverty and suffering
Eyes not blue nor green
But black, that had seen too much
Couldn’t
StopBlinkingBlinkingBlinking

If only she could mask her identity
Uncover her true personality
But what would that be?
Just an imitation
Of
Westernity?

She was Bin Laden

She was a whore

She was rebel

She was oppressed

She was liberated.

She was supposed to be better that the rest.

She was a terrorist

A mora

Marroquí

She was a nadie

She was an actress.

She was desirable

And invisible

She was confused…

But who was she?

She was swimming in white
but she realised she couldn´t swim
so she started to sink
when her body
floated to the surface
it was black.

She was Black
Woman
Muslim
the crying Palestian mother
clutching the cold body
of her dead.
she was covered in the burqa
thanking the Americans for freedom
she was Moroccan immigrant
couldn´t read
didn´t know Spanish.
She was the Indian
from Mere Hindustan
she was the Somalian
who had suffered
mutilation
she was the terrorist
who despised the West
she was the victim and verdugo
of September 2001
march 2004
april 2002
víctima y verdugo
Víctima y verdugo
Víctima y verdugo
She was Black
Muslim
Woman.

Encounters/ Anécdotas

These pieces were inspired by my friend and author Margie Kanter, whose style I thought very fitting to express these thoughts that passed through my mind as i read her works...
So here goes...

She was comfortable with her abrigo puesto
in the heated car,
with her coat on inside the car
¿No estás incómoda así?, she was asked.
"No, I´m fine. I´m used to always keeping my coat on, she lied.
In Madrid, you see alot of people with their
coats on in the stuffy metro, bus and so on.
I don´t think it´s that bizarre"... she replied.
qué barbaridad, she read on her companion´s face
who continued driving with an embarrassed look.

....


DESENCUENTROS

She stopped to get directions
Perdona, she said in her slow foreign spanish accent.
¿Sabes dónde está el Ateneo?
She was still confused so she asked another.
No response
then another...
She stopped a balding spanish-looking guy
and decided to try her luck once more
Perdona... she began
No, no, he replied, no tengo nada para ti.
I have nothing for you
He thought she was a mendiga,
a beggar....


BEEP BEEP BEEP

She walked through the entrance
looked the guard in the eye
she already began to feel guilty.
she was torpe, awkward,
walking around, drawing suspicion.
¿Te puedo ayudar? she was asked
she politely responded she was just browsing
She wanted to try on
those plaided pants
but instead,
she turned around and left.


NATURAL SELECTION
She held on to her fries and tightly sealed coke
in one hand
and her bus ticket in the other
It was a cold Madrid evening.
the conductor´s mood matched the ambiente
No puedes entrar con esto, joder!
She wasn´t allowed to enter, she was told.
Luego tiráis todo aquí mismo.
She felt like a child
who was being scolded.
she wanted to reply
but nothing came out of her mouth
...
so she waited for the other bus
Through the window, she saw a Spanish lady sipping coke.

Errancias madrugales

this blog was intended to be a verbal purging of sorts. So here´s to this "finalidad".

I:

I´m listening to Idir, the Algerian berber, "cantante de rai". I was first introduced to his music from the film "Dimanche Incha Allah" and i immediately fell in love with both the film and the sound track. It was one of those movies where the strenght and perseverance of the Arab woman in addition to the beastly mother in law and the violent, insensitive husband, submissive to only his mother were once again the pieces to this scenario set in France during the law of family regroupment passed by Chirac. anyway, back to Idir. the cd is entitled "Idir, deux rives un reve" and almost all the songs are in bereber. When i recently acquired them, my favourite was in fact "Identités", a compilation of a variety of his songs remixed. They are just lovely. there are two which i really like, one is with Manu Chao and is titled "A Tulawin" and another is a spanish flamenco mix with the french gypsy Titi Robyn and the spanish Paco el Lobo entitled "Fable". Well, what is it that attracts me so much to this music? Well, it was the sound of this flute initially which seemed to draw you hypnotically to the sounds. But then i also began to be drawn by Idir´s cool, sensual, tranquil voice which really swept me away...

II


-Chile, you must learn to talk proper english, with the accent like dem real british people..
-But mammy, dat does sound so ugly, i like meh accent, people say ah does talk nice
-gyul, yuh crazy ah wat?? only poor coolie people does talk like you. why yuh think ah send yuh to school and sacrifice so much for? Ah want yuh to make meh proud.
-ok, mummy, ah go try but it does be real hard, yuh know. Besides, when ah talk with accent, everybody does laugh at meh...
-doh study dem, one day, it go be you who go laugh, you just wait an see. You is the one dat go mek meh proud. doh forget...

Some people tell me ah lucky to talk english. thank God, the british colonise we. Because now, everybody want to learn english and we already know it. It doh matter if ah does talk broken or if meh grammar real bad, but i cud manage and i cud read dem texts of British culture dey want to push dong we throat in school. It real funny the history dey does teach we in school. it kinda amnesiac so when yuh reach the age of twenty, yuh doh even know nothing about the Black Revolution in 1970 but yuh know about the First and Second World Wars. We doh know nothing about we neighbours, or about we own geography, but we know all dem lyrics they does pong we in de radio and all dem brands and styles that come out in the States. We does feel proud to wear dem T Shirts with the American flag or the Statue of Liberty. We does hide we face to make de line infront of Marley Street to get we visa. We ent mind spending the night in the street to make sure we get in. but when we come off the plane, just back from the Big Apple, we feel like a shilling to sport we imitation brands and we new accent.. I just came back from America.. you cud hear dem say...


III

That´s when i knew that fucking english was a curse. Ha!!! I thought by speaking the language of the civilised, I too was part of them, even though my accent was different. It didn´t matter if i had citizenship. My colour was my measuring stick. the browner I was, the further I was differentiated from them. I could not be like them, no. Even if i spoke better than half of them. I wasn´t to watch them in their eyes, i was to follow all their orders. I had become their slave after my ancestors were emancipated.

A fortuitous encounter

When she first met her in that hostel room with the two other unfriendly Argentine jews, she immediately knew they were going to be friends. She liked her french accent, her openness, her joviality, her deep sad eyes. In a matter of a few hours, she already felt she could write part of her biography.. they had done nothing but share stories although she did more listening than talking. She was always protective and shy and insecure about her personal life. Her secrets and fears were kept very hidden, tightly tucked away from preying eyes. So she preferred to listen.
I came to Europe for love. Or maybe i wanted to escape from my life, from all the nightmares, from a reality i could no longer bear.. when i met this African guy online and we immediately clicked, i knew he would be my ticket, literally, to start a new life. Yet, being the sceptical, responsable person that I am, i wanted to ensure i was not making a mistake- So i held out, i waited, i got to know him better.. his promises reassured me, his kindness were my pillow at nights and this life which awaited me in Brujas was my comfort in days of despair when i fought with all my savings to recover the child i had given birth to...
Sex for me was initially sacred, only to be done, not enjoyed, within the confines of marriage. i remember after my first encounter, i forced myself to deny and obliterate it, convincing myself that i was still a virgin, virgin, virgin... I was. After many encounters, my former beliefs were shed slowly but yet, that tinge of guilt was always with me.. as the years went by, sex almost became my weapon.. my way out from one situation after another.. i no longer enjoyed it, it was another routine to be finsihed to get to my ends.. sometimes it was painful, other times, it was boring, yet other times, it was embarrassing. There were moments when i felt abused, raped, trashed.. but i put it all behind me. I fought to keep my sanity afloat. No doubt my spirituality and God nourished and protected me.
Well, as you imagine, i came to Europe and the idea of the freedom, the chances to practice my music filled me with an unknown sensuality. This was all ephemeral however, as you would shortly discover.. the lies, the deceit, the facades all surfaced and the impact was too much for me to bear. I slept with cockroaches, the false, faint smile was like an implant gone bad on my face i no longer recognised. Each day, he would display me to friends who came in abundance. i felt complimented but also disgusted. i was in pain literally. i wanted out. That´s why i ran away once more, leaving everything i came with all behind.
I knew it was going to be difficult. I had 80€ with me and i needed a job desperately. the only clothes i now owned were the ones on my back. I slept with willing men for information and promises of help, jobs, anything to advance.. i was hopeful. Europe was the land of opportunities. The day i met you was like a Godsent. i was so thrilled. Your kindness, your willingness to listen without judging really touched me.I opened up to you without knowing you. it was theraphy- but i knew you would leave me behind, just like my parents, just like m y daughter, just like my lovers. When you left, the emptiness threatened to strangle me.. i was choking for those comforting eyes, that secure presence... my luck seemed to decline rapidly and i was forced to spend one night after another in the cold benches of Amsterdam. I kept thinking of you and those big, beautiful, comforting eyes, but those too soon disappeared. That´s when i called Brujas and decided to live with the cockroaches a while more....

conquering the lie

it just came back to me. it´s so strange, i´ve been trying to dig up this memory for a while now but couldn´t put my finger on it.. under what circumstances exactly did i experience that dizziness, that sinking feeling that made me want to bury myself in the earth, become invisible? Then it happened. it was that day, just like this one, when truth was confronted with lie, me the barrier, the receptor between the two. I had taken the money for vegetables sold, spent it in T-shirts that i later re-sold at a reduced price because i needed to maintain that popularity, this new attention that came with me and factory T-shirts. In other words, the money i was supposed to give to my parents went into this new doomed enterprise. i thought i had covered all my steps, i had even erased the name under "debts" to as not to arouse suspicion. but the cleverness of a mother was not to be tested especially when it came to making ends meet and feeding six mouths with one unstable income.
so my mother confronted the debtor who very surprised, noted that the payment was already made to....me! my astonished mother called me in the presence of the supposed debtor to prove what lying, thieving neighbours we had, she said. that´s why vegetables should not be sold to them because they were too cheap and "scrunting" she would add. Of course i denied everythng, much to the bewilderment of the debtor and that was when this gloom came over me, when things started to become blurry, when i started to wallow and sway, when i could no longer hear my voice or what i was saying... when i thought the world was plotting against me...
Yes, that was the first time i had experienced such intense emotions triggered by a lie... the second time, though, would be worse, since i really fainted. Again, the lie was uncovered, again, i began to defend myself helplessly, knowing my arguments were disappearing in the air before it reached its receptor.. the words started to taunt me, my thoughts began to play games in my head... all the while, i´m trying to follow logically a conversation about the room for rent.... the next thing i know.. i was on the floor, semi conscious, unable to immediately put all the pieces together.. that was the second time that the lie was defeated.

just my imagination

It was all so very simple. She didn´t need poetry, she only needed his love and his caress. Once upon a time, she met a boy with black-rimmed glasses and black curly hair. He looked like a jew. A month later, by coincidence, they began to talk and she liked what she heard. From whom she heard it. And from then on began her imaginary romance. Her imagination blossomed by leaps and bounds. there were moments of ambiguity, moments of intense passion, moments of despair and depression. And they all seemed to replenish with his mere presence. they started spending more time together, she started revealing frivolously more and more of herself. She knew he wanted her. She also wanted to melt her body in his, combine their mouths. She wanted to be the words of his poetry, the image in his gaze, the haunting presence in her absence.
So she told him how much she had grown to love and desire him in eight long, short months. Long enough to measure her love, short to satiate her thoughts. She wasn´t sure when her love would wear out, but it didn´t matter. He wasn´t sure from where his next penny would emerge but the anxiety and anguish melted in her eyes. Those eyes, two black beads that perforated his heart and made him shiver helplessly. That was her effect on him. Cold shivers just like the morning breeze that was her name. She was charm, quiet tranquility in his life of unstable turbulence. But she would appear and disappear, love and be indifferent, he would respond and be silent.
She decided she wanted to hold him in bed like a child, hold him to her breasts and feel his shivers that would cause her to erupt in shrill laughs. she wanted to feel his slim body over her, his hands moving over in eloquent strokes, knowing and anticipating mastery for their love, momentary, was also eternal.

revisiting 1984

Well it is often said that reality surpasses the imagination. in so many instances, this has been proven true. Once more, we are provided with the sterling example of Russia´s Kremlin who has now undertaken to put into effect what George Orwell described to us in the magnificent, if not scary novel 1984. Putin apparently doesnt agree with how the Communist Soviet Union is represented in the history books so he has sought to rewrite history and how we remember Stalin among other things as well.. it seems that Orwell´s language of Newspeak is also materialising as the Kremlin describes the Second World War for example as the Gran Guerra Patriótica!! it´s scary the way the past can be mutable and distorted especially with the technology now available. As Orwell rightly predicted, more and more we are brainwashed by "Big Brother" leaders who would go to any lenghts to keep the proles in their place. the only thing that remains it seems is the appearance of telescreens in our houses vigilating our every move.. and later, who knows, even controlling and intruding in our thoughts!!
Have a read of the article yourself!

The Mother

I still remember her image. she had long black hair, was a bit overweight after six pregnancies, had lost almost all her teeth, was very wrinkled and was now past sixty. Her eyes, however, still matched her vivacity and sparkled cantakerously... she was a unique woman, no doubt. Was it that all mothers were so abnegating, loving, giving?
She got married at the age of 28. That was old then. She remembered seeing her husband in the train in her school days. He was known for his violent tendencies and later she would tell us that many a times in a fit of anger, he would scream "I will eat you raw!". She often seemed to repent the years she spent with him, this man who loved and illtreated her the same time. She received many a blows from him and would find herself in her mothers house many weekends after lenghtened fights. The worse, she would add, was the humilliation she felt, for she lived with her inlaws and their wives or husbands as well. they all sniggered behind her back and looked for any opportunity to humilliate her even more. She was the only one educated amongst them and would often add that these "stupid arse people" felt they were better than her... she would lament all her lost potential.. for she was a talented, determined woman. In her youthful days, some would have found her quite beautiful as well.
Her sisters had all migrated abroad. she on the other hand, had to stop working because her husband didnt approve of it.. in fact, even if she left the house, she would be given the third degree. that was why, she said, that when she left home, sometimes she never felt like returning.. she would lie that it was her children that always brought her back.. Sometimes i would sneak looks at the two of them together. There was love, for sure. She was an affectionate woman with charm and tenderness. He, a bit rough and uncouth, also had a lot of sex appeal. By his heavy breathing when he ate, i could tell he was passionate in bed. At sixty something, he still had a sleak figure which was the envy of many men his age. Some would also commend him on his dark, smooth, firm skin..
Of all her six children, none managed to make her proud. This was a constant source of distress and lamentations for her. She had tried so hard... sacrificed so much, she was educated, she raised her children well.. she would sigh.. but alas! there were too many missed opportunities. She should have married off her first son when he was twenty, she knew.. there were good offers then. Now, at thirty five, he was wasting away, still single, with a bleak future. He spent most nites looking at pornography videos and masturbating in the little room that served as the resting place for all. it was a pity, she would repeat, i don´t know how he get so, she would add.. he would also molest her other daughters, she knew that, but she never confronted him with it..
That´s why one of them left, or at least that´s what she had said. She remembers seeing the movie "The Altar Boys". The young girl let her brother molest her and even confessed that she enjoyed it and begged for more. Was that how her daughters felt as well? One of them would show her all the cracks in the wooden partitions which the brother had undoubtedly made to see them undressing. Once, one of the smaller ones caught him and screamed. She said she would often have nightmares. This was one of them she confessed to me:
He would often appear menacing, many times totally naked. there was this one time when he emerged from his room and tried to draw her attention to his enlarged penis. she would scream and try to escape. only that when she opened her mouth, no sound emerged. it was the most horrifying feeling, you know? totally helpless, afraid and anguished. Trying to escape from a space that was closing in on you. then i would awake in fright, breathing heavy with sweat running down my spine. Of course it was difficult to fall asleep after this. I would like awake and also masturbate for that was the only thing that calmed me, brought me pleasure and made me sleep again...at ease.
Was the mother oblivious to all this? Maybe she shut her eyes to avoid the disgrace, the shame, the scandal. did this make her a bad mother? What was her responsibility? I shudda get him married long time.. but the girl was so black and ugly, she would say.. she was a stupid arse.. but now she high and dry... she would repeat. I would listen to her, although i knew every last detail by heart.. sometimes i would get angry, feel like cursing her and telling her to get the hell out of my sight.. but i knew she was as anguished as me. She was a constant believer in god and many nites, i heard her weeping loudly, begging God to help her children, not to make them the laughing stock of the family. one was a bachelor nearing forty. The other was a drunkard who was with many a married woman and whore. the other ran away and was with a mexican doctor (maxi conductor). Lord.. she would pray, helplessly, don´t let my children go astray.. I wanted to laugh.. what was the use? Who got married nowadays? so what if your son was with a divorcée? He was no innocent man either! And so what if he was drank? So what if your daughter wanted to live far away and start her life the way she pleased? So what, i wanted to scream?

No, but people, gossip.. that would one day kill her, i knew...

New lactose fad in China?

Yet another interesting article taken from El País and entitled more or less "What if China consumed its own milk?" Well it seems that this new fad as the article insinuates, promoted by its Premier with huge advertisements encouraging greater milk consumption, could affect milk prices the world over.. Great Britain is already bracing itself.. im sure some of you are thinking... maybe the Chinese are better off being lactose intolerant right?!!! Feel free to leave funny thought provoking comments.

female preferences

Just saw this interesting article in the El País newspaper on what features or behaviour women now prefer in the partner they choose according to a survey done in the UK. According to the opinions collected, women seem to prefer the softer more feminine look in men rather that the virile, harsh features which have long occupied the top of the hierarchy. it seems that the more feminine they are, the less likely inclined they would be to infidelity among other negative traits in a more lasting partner... have a read yourself...

Adiós al macho ibérico
Las mujeres prefieren hombres con algunos rasgos femeninos para una relación duradera

Un estudio revela que las mujeres prefieren hombres con algunos rasgos femeninos en lugar de aquellos que muestran un aspecto muy masculino. La razón es que no son vistos como buenos candidatos para una relación permanente, según señala la revista Personality and Individual Differences.
Las mujeres participantes en el estudio indicaron que los hombres con algunos rasgos femeninos pueden ser compañeros más comprometidos y con menos tendencia a la infidelidad.
Los científicos pidieron a 400 hombres y mujeres británicos que emitieran un juicio acerca de fotografías de hombres alteradas con el objeto de que se vieran más o menos masculinos o femeninos. También se les solicitó que pronosticaran sus características personales, incluso comportamiento sexual, y si serían buenos padres.
De esta manera, los hombres de rasgos muy masculinos, como el mentón cuadrado, una nariz más voluminosa y ojos pequeños, fueron calificados como dominantes, infieles, malos padres y con personalidad menos "cálida" en comparación con los que tenían algún rasgo femenino.
Las mujeres han dejado de creer en el mito de la masculinidad asociado al buen estado físico e inmunidad a las enfermedades.

Eyes to see

Epigraph from Fugitive Light by Mohamed Berrada:

My God, lovers are not at fault. it is you who put them to the test by creating many a pretty face Therewith captivating onlookers´ hearts. And yet you command us to overlook them As if You created no eyes for us.

Cuál prefieres mi corazón?

Hola, estoy leyendo un relato de un marroqui Mohamed Berrada y encontré este párrafo que quería compartir contigo. es en inglés, luego intentaré traducirlo-

"Cling to your chaos my heart, for order-any order-will grant you nothing but monotony and surrender and cocoon rottenness; it will deprive you of being fascinated by the birghtness of morning, by the golden light of late afternoon, by the soft caress of the breeze, it will stand between you and the pleasure of walking on a narrow isthmus in response to a call from a bottomless abyss. Choas? Order? at least when you utter the word "chaos" that suggests jungles of meaning. as for order, how ugly is the austerity of its wrinkles!" (Fugitive Light)

Y en español, mas o menos, sería - "Aferra a tu caos, mi corazón, porque el orden, cualquier orden, sólo te da monotonía y resignación y una putrefacción de capullo. te priva de fascinarte por el brillo de la mañana, la luz dorada del atardecer, de la dulce caricia de la brisa. Se impomdrá en el camino entre tu y el placer de caminar en un estrecho istmo como respuesta a una llamada del abismo sin fondo. Caos? Orden? Por lo menos, cuando dices "orden", sugiere una jungla de significados. en cuanto a "orden", cuán fea es la austeridad de sus arrugas!"

Saludos.

So this is life, she thought. an empty hollowness that threatened to swallow her or even chew her and then spit her out. She contemplated suicide. No, she was too vain and proud to stoop so low.. besides she was a coward at heart and she knew it. Childhood memories began to haunt her. Images from that school novel Annie John came to her mind. Like when a boy asked Annie to remove all her clothes and placed her on an ant´s patch, totally naked. or the disgust she felt when she saw her parents making out. She didn´t understand what these images had to do with anything. Maybe it was this mentality a la Annie John which she possessed but refused to admit.
She remembered her first years in high school. how unpopular and insecure she was. She wished to be every other girl. Her nose was too long. Her legs were ugly and bowlegged. She was too skinny. When she saw herself reflected in pictures, she wished she could disappear. but instead, she dedicated herself to seeking attention from her classmates. First she lied about her family, her upbringing, her status. they owned a supermarket, she lied. The old man who came to pick her up in that embarassing car was her grandfather she said; the younger one was their chauffeur. When she was discovered, she continued to live in denial. She refused to give in. No, she hadn´t stolen the watch nor the pencilcase. No, those pictures of snow and a happy family enjoying a birthday party were in fact her... yes, even though i look different there, that´s me.. of course. And then those letters from so called penpals from Scotland, Paris, Vienna... no, they bear local stamps because they are all my friends, i mean they send it to someone here before it reaches you... no, no, thats a Scottish family.. of course it looks like your country.. it´s almost the same, yes. And the lies turned to bigger ones, but she didnt stop. Why? She was already the outcast, her popularity as a misfit was soaring.. She would redeem herself, she promised. One day, she would be admired by these very girls who shunned and looked down on her.. yes...

the pain of rejection

where is the line between humilliation and dehumanisation, E asked herself. No, she was too hurt to rationalise her behaviour and that of the man she longed to be with. He constantly rejected her, she constantly pushed. Maybe she thought that if she pushed hard enough, he would eventually discover that deep within, she was really the one he loved? She hated herself because she had promised she would never let a man subject her to inferiority, treat her like second class, another piece of disposable flesh.. but yet she gave herself, all of herself.. she was strong, independent, successful, why did she need this man to complete her? why did she return after knowing how he felt, why did she continue to torture herself day in day out, dissecting microscopically all the conversations they had.. she always thought she was on top of everything, that her life was just the way she wanted it, that she had the love of a man.. why was this love so important.. is it that rejection belittles you so much that the consequent actions are just responses to this new inferior status.. she wondered to herself where exactly she went wrong. what exactly didn´t men like about her... MEN.. that word. that MAN was turning her world into a worldwind... she laughed to herself through the tears which seemed to flow freely without seeking her approval nor permission. Her tear drops took their course, offering her the solidarity she needed, indicating to her that life was fluid, flowing, nonstop.. that the pain, just like the tears, would stop.. but when?
but didn´t they say that we were all replaceble. thats what they all told her.. that before she knew it, she´d be in love again.. if that was the case, then why did she feel so betrayed, so empty, so insecure, so alone? where was that someone they were all promising? From where and when would he arrive? was this one going to be replaced as well?

De sobra sabes que eres la primera que no miento si juro que daría por ti la vida entera, por ti la vida entera.Y sin embargo un rato cada día ya ves te engañaría con cualquiera te cambiaría por cualquiera.
She kept playing these confused lines of Joaquin Sabina´s "Y sin embargo" over and over in her head.

- so where does that leave us?
-Us? was there ever an us?
- Didn´t all my attempts to draw closer to you, all the times i showed you how much you meant to me, mean anything at all to you? You must have been aware that you were more than a friend to me? How about all those times you tried to be intimate with me and i pushed you away? I don´t know when things changed between us?
-Me neither. But you are right, something changed
-I remember that night we sat for hours, you lying on your back and me sitting by your side. we imagined what our futures would be like. Such beautiful moments. you told me i´d marry a Moroccan then he´d die and i´d go for his brother! then i´d become a terrorist.. and then you laughed out loud! Then i´d be flying towards my homeland with my husband and two kids when the plane´s engine would fail...right over YOUR homeland..hahah.. and you, being the superman that you are.. would rescue us.. i remember i told you your version was bullshit but i still loved listening to you invent my life.. i felt so close to you that night...
- Yes and you told me i´d end up dying when i came to visit you..but i prefer to die close to my mother earth too..Doesn´t everyone want to die where they came from, close to their origins?
- do we have to talk about death? the idea was to figure out when things changed between us? What happened? I remember observing to you that u were acting differently, that i no longer felt you close to me. You told me i wasn´t the first to tell you that. How it hurt weeks after when you told a friend infront of me that when a guy distances himself from a girl, it´s a sign that he wants to slowly break away... I felt so depressed and sad
- But i kept coming to see you, if only to see you and feel your presence even though i knew you were different, that things couldn´t work out.. did we even try?
-No, i was too shy, i wouldnt let you near me.. and you didn´t bother either.. all you seemed to want was physical bonding..
-Well that´s a natural step in getting closer to someone, what´s so wrong with that...
-Nothing..it´s natural.. but for moments.. it seemed that that was all you were interested in..
-I´m young and perverted, can you blame me?!
-So i guess this is it.. we just try to stay friends...were we ever friends?
-Of course.. you were my best friend..
-haha! Dont make a mockery of friendship.. we were nothing in the end..im so nostalgic and lonely...and hurt..
-I´m sorry
-Are you?
-What the fuck is your problem? You know what? You just like attention!
-what? fuck! where are you coming from?! Im just telling you how i feel..
-Well you are messed up!!
-that´s typical male behavoir.. men are such arses!
-you are so stubborn.. when i first met you, you were an angel.. then i saw you metamorphose into a demon..with bulging eyes and veins that wanted to burst.. scary..hhhaha!
- you always make fun of everyhitng.. i actually believed i loved you.. but now i see you were a product of my imagination..all my imagination..and you could never live up to that creation.. in the end, when i judge you by your actions, you are a selfish fool, irresponsible and reckless who never loved me at all.. why did u make me grow close to you..
- Well you admitted you were the one who made all the moves..
-Yes, that´s true.. so i guess this is it.. we go our separate ways now.. we have nothing much to say to each other now..
-ciao then..
- fuck! i hate you for that! your ability to be so cold and indifferent. i wish i also possessed your sang froid!
-I don´t understand you.. first you say.. ok, that´s it.. and when i assent, you become angry..
-You dont understand women´s psyche at all... and you aspire to be a doctor corazón! thats ridiculous!
-.....
- I curse myself for falling for you.. everyone told me you were going to hurt me.. but i wanted to get hurt... i wanted to live, love, feel..
-....
-in the end, i will remember the good moments.. the time when you told me you thought about me alot.. you wrote about me.. when you touched my toe and when you told me the time spent with me was magical.. i won´t forget you... adiós then
-...

Revolvió- lyrics

"Revolvió".. if i cud write lyrics like this... in all its simplicity, sensuality, beauty and appeal..Alas.. me toca saborearla de momento y disfrutarla siempre.

Porque fue suficiente hablarle con los ojos desde allí.
Si en ese mismo instante su vida era tranquila y feliz,
la vino a revolver con bollitos y miel
Mareas en la tierra, el cielo iba cubriéndose de gris.
Porque salió el torrente, el miedo y las ganas de sentir.
Y quiso saborear la masa de su pan.

Revolvió su calor con su voz, con leche y azúcar se lo dio a beber.
Bordeó el corazón la razón con unos besos de ron y miel.
Horneó con su aliento su pelo, y caramelo parecía al terminar.
Y quiso saborear la masa de su pan.

Escríbele canciones, envíale tu voz donde él esté.
Vagando por su almohada le vino a visitar en sueños él.
La vino a revolver y se dejo hacer.
Estampidas en la tierra, el cielo iba tiñéndose marfil.
Porque brotó el torrente, el verbo y las ganas de sentir.
Y pudo saborear la masa de su pan

Él revolvió su calor con su voz, con leche y azúcar se lo dio a beber. Bordeó el corazón la razón con unos besos de ron y miel.
Horneó con su aliento su pelo, y caramelo parecía al terminar.
Y pudo saborear la masa de su pan

Paris, je t´aime

Well a friend reminded me recently when he heard of my trip to Paris how this was one of my long time dreams. Well i guess he was right. Of all the European countries, Paris was definitely one city i dreamed of visiting. Well the trip held no disappointments; i was enthralled by the place, the people and the ambiance of romance on the Seine river at night!
I arrived there after 10pm in the night and my shyness prevented me of attempting to put into practice all the french i had learned over the years. Well english is generally spoken there, if only grudgingly i might add. At the airport, an American citizen saw me struggling with the guy at the help desk for assistance as to how to get out of the airport by train or public transport. the strange and wonderful thing is that he came up to me, explained politely that i should ignore the guy, who by the way was sending me to hell, and to follow his instructions. that i did and i managed to get on the shuttle that i later discovered would take you to the stop that would lead to the North station where i would then have to take two metro lines before i came to the location of my hostel. Well, lo and behold, the kindly gentleman reappeared in the shuttle and this time, he gave me a day ticket which he said he no longer needed and explained that it wasnt easy getting around here. The frech public transport system is good but it s a bit confusing and takes a while getting used to, as i would learn.

Well my first experience on the metro was pleasant enough. i must admit being pleasantly surprised byt the number of black people all around and how well they seemed to be integrated. Those who have been to or lived in MAdrid will understand this transition. Nobody seemed to take ntoice of me there with my hijab, another surprise and this time, the added joy to find in the gazes of people not suspicion or even scorn, but flirtatiousness or simple indifference.

Another stereotype- the french are cold, unfriendly. i even read a warning somewhere which stated that help should not be sought from the french who are quickly annoyed. Well i didnt experience that at all... in fact, when some French women sitting at a table saw us looking like confused people, they even asked if we needed help. I must admit that the reception from the cafés wasn´t all that and that some coldness and uncomfortable stares were noticeable.

Anyway, so the first time i arrived in full view of the Eiffel tower, i didnt know how to react. one, because my instant reaction was - but it isnt all that, its in fact ugly!!! but at nite, when it was all lit up, i was definitely taken aback and the walk all along the Seine with this lighted monument was definitely worthwhile. the Seine at nite is the most romantic, beautiful setting. On the bridge of Arts (Pont des beaux arts) you had spectacular views and not a few couples who came there to enjoy a little night picnic.

Montmartre, the bohemian artist´s zone was definitely another ambiance at nite with it´s cafés, painters and little bars which proudly displayed signs revealing one painter or the other´s favourite nightspot. the Dali´s museum there was incredible and is definitely worth a stop! there was a section on his famous moustache, his many clock depictions and the clothes fashion he inspired. Definitely impressing. His ego, on the other hand did draw a raised eyebrow!

oh.. before i forget, just two things which caught my attention. One, the liveliness of the French. in the cafés i´d been to at night, the people would burst into song and dance, regardless of age etc. This was really amusing and i´m sure they were still trying to hold on to past memories of another era. The other thing was the bloated, obsessive nature of the French´s nationalistic pride as seen from their monuments praising and remembering the victories of France. By contrast, the efforts of non-french individuals in the battles seemed to be played down or forgotten altogether..

So by coincidence, the last nite i decided to see a movie that was being released that day and that was directed by the muchliked Julie Delpy. its called "Two days in Paris" and i later admitted that that was the best way i could have left this city. What the movie highlights and caricatures are the typical stereotypes of the French. the said director is visiting Paris with her american bf of two years in a bid to show him her city and parents and rekindle their romance. Sex, jingoisim, arrogance, racism of the typical French emerge from the movie that made me laugh alot.

So all in all, just some vague impressions of my visit to Paris. I deliberately omitted certain "things to do" inorder to ensure i revisit this cité inoubliable!!

equality of sexes in the Arab world- what role does religion play in the big picture.

"No todo es lo que parece-los velos son sexy"- Wonder if in the near future, this could become a publicity stunt in the West!! these are the words of Egyptian feminist Iman, who notes that it´s easy to wear a veil but hard to practise the religion. couldn´t agree more. But this introduction is but an aside. In today´s EPS supplement of the EL Pais, a very interesting article appeared on Islam, women and equality in Morocco. Its title- "Carrera hacia la igualdad". Very interesting, relevant points are made, especially by the women interviewed. the link is attached for the interested reader. what most strikes me, however, is the stance the author of the article adopts. he is nothing short of condescending, paternalistic and ethnocentrist. For example, the way he mockingly derides the traditional and common form of dress by both male and female Moroccans; his absurd insistence on the feminist Iman´s western adoptions and his repetition of how many cigarretted she smokes on the hour- as if these silly habits automatically grant entry into the civilised world.
there are interesting comments about the increased visibility of the hijab in the Arab and Muslim world and what exactly this represents and symbolises. interestingly, and i agree, the same feminist quoted above also notes that it is more a political and identity symbol rather than a mere manifestation of faith.
the author´s dichotomous, Machiavelean posture, though, is at times enervating, to say the least. his questions and comments clearly reveal his ethnocentrism and superiority speaking from the Western culture. He equates the Islamic form of dress easily and undoubtedly with backwardness and fanaticism, for example. Nonetheless, the article on a whole provides valuable, interesting observations which, if read with a "lupa" reveals the many ironies and contradictions in our societies and the need to dispel our prejudices and stereotypes when trying to understand the Other. Good article, worth a quick read!

Living in the age of Migrations

Here are some extracts of an interesting article on migrations in Cape Verde (link included).

An estimated 200 million people live outside the country of their birth, and they help support a swath of the developing world as big if not bigger. Migrants sent home about $300 billion last year — nearly three times the world’s foreign aid budgets combined. Those sums are building houses, educating children and seeding small businesses, and they have made migration central to discussions about how to help the global poor. A leading academic text calls this the “Age of Migration.”

“You have a Cape Verdean here who would cut his right arm off to go back,” said Mr. Gomes, who lives in a one-room hovel without running water or electricity.

Without migration, Cape Verde would not exist. The 10-island chain, 385 miles off the coast of Senegal, was uninhabited until the 15th century, when Portugal settled it with two migrant streams — Europeans and African slaves. Cape Verde became a creolized mix of both continents and a supply depot for the slave trade.

“We asked for workers, but we got people,” is a famous European lament.

Advances by Muslim women in Algeria

An interesting article appeared in the Times newspaper about Algerian Muslim women and their advances in society despite their adherence to and practice of their faith. This is what one of the paragraphs says for example-

Women make up 70 percent of Algeria’s lawyers and 60 percent of its judges. Women dominate medicine. Increasingly, women contribute more to household income than men. Sixty percent of university students are women, university researchers say.

the article also goes on to indicate that they drive buses and cabs, pump gas and serve at tables, jobs traditionally associated to males only. According to the article, women nonetheless only make up 20% of the work force. Its interesting to note that the high percentage of women in certain fields is attributed to the migration of males or to the high male drop out rate from school.

What i find particularly interesting and of great significance is that the women, although they have positioned themselves in progressive spheres outside the domestic ambit, they are also said to be more religious than previous generations, despite obviously being more modern- Women cover their heads and drape their bodies with traditional Islamic coverings. They pray. They go to the mosque — and they work, often alongside men, once considered taboo.

the article goes on to say in fact that their traditional form of dress and their religious adherences actually free them from restrictions imposed by men or from moral judgements. Of course, this could be read as a regression by feminists or other thinkers who might see this as submitting to male rules or Islamist threats in order to appear or contribute in society. Maybe so.

Other consequences that emerge from these changing roles of women are for instance, delayed marriages and lower birth rates which obviously impact on the whole society.

These women, modern and visibly professing their faith, are seen to reflect the present and future of Algeria, torn between Islamist threats, years of civil wars and abundant deaths and the need to move forward according to the pace set by globalisation etc. They are the ones who offer a moderate face of their country and of Islam to the world looking on. They are the ones, like their mothers and grandmothers who had opposed the French by sticking to their culture and religion, who would propel the country into a promising future. Mabrouk!

Jorge Drexler

Here are some lines from several songs that i like by Jorge Drexler:

Cada uno da lo que recibe
y luego recibe lo que da,
nada es más simple,
no hay otra norma:
nada se pierde,
todo se transforma. (Todo se transforma)

No hay muerto que no me duela,
no hay un bando ganador,
no hay nada más que dolor
y otra vida que se vuela.
La guerra es muy mala escuela
no importa el disfraz que viste,
perdonen que no me aliste
bajo ninguna bandera,
vale más cualquier quimera
que un trozo de tela triste. (Milonga de un moro judío)

And well, the following song, "Transporte" im forced to quote the entire thing cause it´s just too beutiful to truncate:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycs48Y1PYPQ

Desde ahora mismo y aquí
hacia donde quiera que estés
parte de mi alma
parte a tu encuentro.
Sabes que te llevo dentro mío
igual que yo sé que tu me llevas dentro.

Se trata de un leve pulsar
que se abre camino hacia tí
cruzando las estaciones, constelaciones,
los momentos.
Digo que esta vida es llevadera
sólo porque sientes tú
lo que yo siento.

Donde tu estás
yo tengo el Norte,
y no hay nada como tu amor
como medio de transporte.

En este instante,
precisamente,
más canto y más te tengo yo
presente,
más te tengo yo presente.

Collisions

I´m thinking of the movie Crash by Paul Haggis and about human relations in general; all the barriers we erect, consciously or unconsciously to reinforce or mold our own identity for we only identify ourself when we differentiate ourself from the Other. so here´s a movie of tensions of all sorts. I like the opening lines when Don Cheadle is talking to his "mexican" colleague; that there is a sudden need for collisions because people have lost contact with each other; they only see each other through glass barriers, from behind walls etc.. and hence this human need to touch, to feel, to live, be it through anger, violence, hate... Each day, living in multicultural, plural, unequal societies is both a joy and a pain...how can you look at a black man in Spain and not think about "pateras", poverty, despair; how can u look at an "arab" and not think about radicalism, not feel insecure.. in the movie Crash, this is exactly what happens..all the stereotypes collide, brought together by an unknown destiny which unites everybody in their disunity.. we are all victims and victimisers, empowered and powerless, rich and poor, privileged and unprivileged depending through which glass you choose to look...
What´s also striking about the movie as well is how minorities also turn on each other, although they are all in the same boat. and this reminds me of a comment a friend made to me recently..she was forced to sign up for cleaning work after all her job applications were rejected. she noted that it was there where you found the most racism, most injustice, bigotry etc..amongst the employees themselves... But this is no surprise...

Simulacrum of her image

I was having a conversation with a guy at the university..his comments were very interesting..he was commenting on my attire- i was wearing a hijab, which he called turbante!!, a bright blue indian cotton top and a white pants..he noted that in his country, this combination would be considered rarísima, inconcebible..his tone was arrogant, a little belittling but as i consider him a close acquaintance, i might quickly add that he is a bit "ingenuo" although no doubt smart, and also a bit chauvinistic.. Here was the typical male who prided himself in a sleek physique and expected nothing less from the women he was surrounded by.. Nonetheless his comments disturbed me cause i realised once more that once u break certain norms like covering your head- in addition to having all the added religious labels attached to you- you were classed differently and aroused different, non-sexual labels in the male´s head... of course, im referring to my specific case here and the rest of the attire is as important as the headpiece, for Muslim women generally wear loose clothing..which does not necessarily mean unattractive. But what i mean is when most men look at you, they don´t see YOU, but they just see the hijab in my case and therefore immediately classify you into a certain category in their heads. This reminds me once in Cuba on a student trip. Two of us had our heads covered..and although we were totally different- different colour, physique, features- the guide could not differentiate us.. Of course this could be simply explained by a lack of interest for a woman who doesn´t immediately reveal her "endowed" parts or figure..And then of course you have the other extreme where precisely because you are covered, you arouse the opposite effect in men who choose to look beyond the physical.. All these thoughts immediately came to mind while hainvg this conversation with this friend. He then went on to say that as far as he knew and from his sources, Muslim women were not allowed to wear pants etc.. and then i thought that it didnt matter how i dressed, once i wore the head scarf, i would almost automatically be classed into a "weird", "alert", "stay away from her", "proceed with caution" type...this is both scary and rich in meaning because knowing all this, you are now left to react as you wish...Many ppl have often commented that im not the typical Muslim woman- im loud at times, i can be forthright, im very easygoing, i´d like to think im open and i try to get along with anybody..but it still hurts each time you approach someone and their gaze which they project on you is either one of distrust, dislike, indifference, rejection etc... i can list many more adjectives, none of them positive.. Of course this is not always the case and this has to be mentioned, but lamentably, in many instances, it is... I guess it´s quite natural and "normal" to prejudge someone based on his/her appearance, but the danger lies when they want to project their image on to you and limit to to that.... oh well... just some of my wandering thoughts that i decided to unleash just as they rushed through my head....

Single monogamous albatross, 47, seeks mate of similar characteristics

This brief article on the failure of the alcatross bird to find a mate far away from his native land immediately caught my eye. the heading read- "Forty years searching for a mate". Images of Eva Hache, the late nite "news comedian" immediately came to mind; I imagined her "pulling at the bird´s feathers"; wondering if he were perhaps polygamous, if it would have been easier to find a mate... or poking fun at exactly why the bird was rejected by the "alcatraces" with whom he has had not an ounce of success! Or perhaps wondering of his future chances seeing that he is fast approaching "retirement age". According to the article in El País, the bird´s life span is about 70 years. this one, it seems is already 47! Maybe its time he changes his strategies and adopt bolder tactics in attracting these proud, hard-to-get alcatraces!! Here are some lines i pulled out from the article which caught my eye and which i have already mentioned in my comment:

Albert es un albatros enfermo de amor que lleva cuarenta años sin encontrar pareja porque vive a miles de kilómetros de su hábitat natural... Los albatros son monógamos y no cambian nunca de pareja... En la zona donde ha acabado este ejemplar, no hay aves de su especie... Albert estaba tratando de intimar con alcatraces, otra especie de ave marina... Las pasadas cuatro décadas se ha empeñado en un esfuerzo inútil por conquistar alcatraces en otras islas remotas del archipiélago escocés.

Let´s get back to joking a la Eva Hache.. we might suggest that the alcatraces are perhaps racist or xenophobic and have therefore refused to mate with these outsiders who will sully their blood and change their features... im sure the alcatraces would recieve alot of support from some extreme-right bird species!! Maybe it´s because this albatross has refused to integrate into his new home and that´s why he´s such a paria, condemned to solitude and extinction!! Like Sarkozy, if he can´t love his new home, then he should just pack up and go back to the Falklands where he could mate with Brits if he so please...
Bueno, bueno, bueno.... this is the reality of Poor Albert, 47, single and looking for a mate. i can´t even suggest he try an add in the classifieds cause im sure no one will notice it amongst the thousand provocative, tantalising promises of pleasure and perversion.. besides, im sure with his monogamy, this option might just sound scandalous!!!!

Essence of a woman

She was 40 plus, plump with a stern face, distrustful, mostly silent at the beginning. she would soon be our third flatmate. Her story is a strange one. She had just gotten married, she told us, to an Egyptian, living illegally in holland. She had met him one afternoon through her brother. she saw him, they spoke for a little while and then that very same evening, she said yes to his proposal. Far from a love at first sight story. At her age, she told us, who really seeks love? so they got married, a regular civil wedding. That night, she lost her virginity, amidst fear, pain and violence, she said. she went into details which were surprising- how she couldn´t relax, how he penetrated her every night, how it was even painful to pee, how someone had told her it would have been easier and less painful if they had done it on the floor.. she lamented, it seemed, not knowing these details beforehand. she had said that her mother insisted she get a "certificate of virginity" to show to her husband before marriage. she told me how it was common practice where she came from, and that some men even requested it, after all, women were not to be trusted nowadays. After her "honeymoon" week was over, she had to resume her life in Spain, leaving her husband behind and promising to apply for his residence as soon as she got a house contract. but this was all months ago. she had seen him a couple of times in between, travelling to holland on weekends or during "puentes" to be with him.

So how much did she know of her husband? not much, it seemed. she had no idea if he had been married before, if he had children, how much money he earned etc.. she would often repeat that he was a clever man and that was who God wanted her to be with...

She was a precocious 17 year old; milky white skin, youthful beauty, huge "houri" eyes- she would draw a lot of attention, she told me proudly and even offered ample details about old men coming to meet her at school, offering to take her for rides and buy her whatever she wanted, or the many suitors who would use her naive younger brothers to get closer to her.. but things changed when the "exorcist" who came to remove the "jinns" or evil spirits from her sister laid eyes on her. He was fat and ugly, she said, and not to mention old. She would bring him coffee and sweets and sit around with the rest of the family, chatting about trivial things, not aware of the effect she was arounsing in the "exorcist". He didn´t waste time in asking for her hand in marriage, much to her shock and disgust. She refused of course. But he persisted. He would wait for her after school just to say hello and enquire about the progress of her ailing sister, or he would discreetly follow her to the market or wherever she went, mixing himself in the crowds, but never taking his eye off this new gem. she had had enough and decided to let him know it. But he had other plans and was determined to have this one for himself. News had spead of a certain relationship between them which eventually reached her father who confronted her, much to her dismay and surprise. After some time and much persistence, one day out of rage vis-a-vis flying accusations, she consented to marrying him. but alas, that was not her destiny, for after a few months, his treacherous character revealed itself...

She really didn´t want to get married, she said. What she wanted was to finish her studies and find a job where she could apply what she learnt. She was a first year university student majoring in law. He asked for her hand in marriage. she hesitated but after speaking to him, she consented. he was religious, educated and very supportive of her goals and dreams. He promised to help her study, he said, and agreed to "allow" her to work after- but only in a primary school, not with young men who could be tempted by her- or not in hospitals, for example, where she could see men undress and have to operate on them for example. she reassured him and things were arranged. they signed the papers and their marriage became official although she continued to love with her parents until after the wedding ceremony which they agreed would be some months away.

so one weekend he calls her and tells her he´s coming over. She tells him he´s free to come, but ojo! she wont be able to spend much time with him cause she had exams and alot of work. This seemed to throw him off and that´s when, according to her, he made a 180 degree turn. He told her that now that they were married, he didn´t necessarily have to maintain his promise, that the truth was he didn´t see why she had to study and why she wanted to work.. that in the end, it didnt do her any good. She was taken aback, of course and firmly maintained her stance and her desire to continue her studies. She insisted, she said, as she had done from the very beginning, that her studies were also her passion and that she would refuse to give them up. This was the beginning of the end and after not speaking for two years, she initiated a divorce...

his life seemed to revolve around his financial squeeze. It penetrated his stories, his conversations, his untold anguish. she wanted to help him but didnt want to wound his pride. she would give him gifts to make him happy and this ennobled her in his eyes. she immediately saw the difference and was both pleased and annoyed at the same time. He thought he was in love. he confessed that she was that haunting presence in his stories, the one that both tormented and fascinated him. she diverted his insistence, albeit with subtlety and discretion. she was also haunted by her past, her own insecurities and her compulsive need to buy friendship or attach monetary value to relationships. She was as much a product of inferiority as he was. maybe that was the common bond that drew them so close to each other.

premeditated eulogy for Fidel Castro

When Castro does die, how will the world remember him? Surely with much ambivalence, except if you are GWB and cronies. Well this is how i will remember his legacy at least- all good and bad things must come to an end:
Ojalá Cuba pueda mantener vivas sus dos mejores fuentes de energía: la solidaridad, porque Cuba es el país más solidario del mundo, y la dignidad, que Fidel Castro ha encarnado, hasta ahora, contra viento y marea. Yo he manifestado públicamente, en más de una ocasión, mis divergencias con la revolución cubana, porque entiendo que ha hecho lo que pudo y no lo que quiso, pero no puedo comulgar con la negación del derecho a la divergencia y del derecho a la libre circulación de las personas y de las ideas. Pero en fin, así es la vida. Sigo creyendo, y creeré mientras viva, que la verdadera militancia se ejerce desde la libertad de conciencia y no desde el deber de obediencia. (entrevista con el humorista (entre otras cosas claro) Eduardo Galeano)

conversación en torno a la inmigración magrebí en España

Carlos and I were discussing a presentation I have to do soon. I had broached him with several doubts on some of the concepts I wanted to apply or use. the whole topic centres around immigration in Spain, particularly from the Magreb region. Here are some extracts that might be interesting to the unknown in ether space-
N- estoy elaborabdo la imagen del emigrante recien llegado como un nacido, lo que algunos ven como cierta regresión porque tiene que volver a aprender a hablar, adaptarse, aprender las costumbres etc. Esto puede ser una vision hegemónica sin duda para representar al emigrante como un niño, atrasado, necesitado de la "proteccion" del "colonizador" etc. Estaba leyendo parte de la teoría de Lacan sobre la fase del espejo- que la imagen que el niño ve en el espejo- esta imagen completa e íntegra a la cual nunca llegará a ser pero aspira a serla de todos modos- y pensé que podría vincular la idea con la primera sobre la llegada del emigrante como "niño" y cómo confronta esta imagen "ideal" del autóctono que intenta remedar pero solo le esperan frustación y ansiedad porque es imposible. No sé cómo se vería este vínculo.. tu, como te parece? disparatado? Leído dentro de la construccion y representacion del discurso "colonial" para mejor someter al marginado y minoritario, distinto y amenazador?

C- Qué relación ves entre el colonizado y el inmigrante? ¿En qué punto crees que haya superposición de las figuras y en cuáles no?...
Volviendo a lo de la figura del niño, eso me recuerda que cuando estudié el populismo en América Latina había algo que se llamaba "igualitarismo vertical" (somo iguales, pero yo soy más igual que tú)... Está claro que el fenómeno que estudias no es ni populismo, ni podría calificarse de igualitarismo, pero sí me parece que hay un gesto con similitudes: es el gesto de la caridad, del proteccionismo, de la tarea civilizadora; se hace uso de una pedagogia supuestamente liberadora, integrada a una compleja máquina de producción cultural. Se trata de una mirada que coloca al Otro en un rango de subalternidad..

N- pues es mi interpretacion tambien de lo de la regresion del inmigrante. lo de usar Lacan, no sé.. cuando lo leía, me pareció parecido a la idea del inmigrante como niño..claro que es una actitud paternalista.. aunque veo la parte tambien del mimetismo alli que vale desdibujar..el inmigrante que aspira a imitar al mas poderoso.. o sea, tiene muchas interpretaciones, Si, yo tambien veo el link con el igualitarismo vertical.. es que no se considera al inmigrante como un verdadero igual- siempre será el otro, el menospreciado etc..sobre todo si tiene rasgos muy diferenciadores, como el color de su piel o su lengua, como el arabe... en la narrativa marroquí que estudio, esta imagen no aparece tan llamativa--el inmigrante es asustado..vive en un mundo de ensoñación..pero nunca es descrito como volviendo a una regresión- A ver si saldrá en la discusión... al final, no usé la teoria de Bhabha..pk me parecía un poco forzada porque segun entendí, el describe sus conceptos a partir del colonizador...quiero decir que aun en el mimetismo que describe, es el mimetismo como estrategia del "estado" o poder para distinguir entre el buen asimilador y el "malo"..
claro que entre el colonizado y el inmigrante--hay muchos matices y tambien diferencias..a mi me interesa personalmente la parte mas sicológica..creo que el colonizado se encuentra obviamente mas restringido en todos los sentidos.. es mas interesante para mi el caso del inmigrante, que encima en muchos casos lleva el bagaje de haber sido colonizado..pero hay espacio para matizacion porque se desplaza al sitio del colonizador, lo que se puede considerar en si un acto de resistencia, y es alli, donde se comienza una verdadera dialectica-- sin duda al principio le asalta su inferioridad y etc..pero como dice Bhabha, aun en el mimetismo hay resistencia porque la copia siempre es distinta del original y ademas..al ver en el otro alguna semejanza, el mas fuerte se ve amenazado y perturbado.. el inmigrante se mueve en este terreno desdibujado segun creo...lo que a mi personalmente me fascina.

Inferior musings

I remember the inferior feeling i had sitting around the Moroccan family in their home in Targuist, Alhucimas, having just arrived from Europe with their fridge, mattresses, Nutela and even Cola Cao… because after all, nothing could be bought there in their “aldea” it seemed, only the essential bread, maybe olives, tea and a few other items. My friend and I had arrived before them having taken a different route so that we were able to witness their arrival, looking very European in their brand name clothing, smelling of sweet perfume, and carrying especially those gifts and other curiosities which seemed to be a luxury there and which were so symbolic of Europe. I had become a spectator and just another Moroccan looking on at this welcoming spectacle which took me back to Trinidad and being the same spectator to relatives arriving from the US- according to instructions from my mother, we were to treat our “guests” “who came from so far” as royalties.. we were to answer to their every beck and call, we were to do whatever they told us, get whatever they needed, give up our beds, even our full meals sometimes.. and we would oblige to all this with a mixture of bitterness and awe. They would pick at the roti handed to them, complain of the annoying mosquitos and the boring local stations and laugh at us when we weren’t familiar with the popular music groups or slang or tv series that everybody was talking about. Our trini accents and bad English would be the butt of jokes as they tried to imitate us, laughing at our backwardness as they saw it.. Although I must admit that our way of speaking also held a certain charm and exotism for them, for sure enough, on their return to the Big Apple, they would also be speaking with their “funny” accents and comment to us the laughter it provoked from their West Indian friends…

This all came back to me sitting on the sofa in the modest house of my friend´s aunt, taking in the spectacle of the arrival and coming to terms with the sudden inferiority that overpowered me when I saw the pains and troubles the single aunt was making to ensure everything was perfect, like bringing out several dishes to please the little son who was picky and grumpy, or practically washing the hands of her “guests” before they sat down to eat.

Later another bout of inferiority would slap me in the face as I realised I was not fair enough to be attractive to the men there who saw “brown skin” as almost equivalent to ugliness… maybe this is an exaggeration on my part due to my wounded pride. .and once more, this took me back to Trinidad where fairness cream was the in-thing because nobody wanted to be dark, marry a dark man/woman.. at home, comments like “he so black and ugly” would be accepted as truths and milky-white skin was heralded as desirable, superior, beautiful.. we all knew it, it seemed, accepted it, sadly and worse of all, interiorised it..

This psychological trauma is what continues to characterise many former colonised peoples, from Indians to West Indians to Africans in general. Fanon did say that to rid oneself of this psychological trauma, the colonizer had to be killed.. he, a Black West Indian who had married a white French middle class woman.. these are the contradictions which fascinate and haunt me..

Aisha canturreaba las palabras de la canción que no podía quitar de su cabeza- Un dios maldijo la vida del emigrante/ serás mal visto por la gente en todas partes/ serás odiado por racistas maleantes…. Estas palabras con el ritmo tan llevadero la dejaban tranquila; era como su antídoto del día, pensaba. Aisha recién había descubierto al grupo y compró el disco sin vacilar para tener más cerca este consuelo solidario... Con el grupo, se imaginaba cantando, casi gritando, eufórica en el metro “somos distintos, somos iguales”; o cuando caminaba por la calle, “pero en la calle nadie lo sabe…”; pero ya en la puerta de su casa, su entusiasmo ligero se resignada a un casi silencioso “pan para todos, tenemos hambre…”, “pero los ricos no lo comparten”. A Aisha le encantaba la forma de bailar del cantante, como si sacudiera de encima todos los prejuicios, todos los dolores; como si en un trance, entraba en otro mundo, su propio mundo, donde ya no le afectaba nada de nada…
Hace ya un año que vivía en España. Aisha no lo podía creer. Cómo pasa el tiempo, decía … y cómo había cambiado, pensaba. Ya no se reconocía, España le había contagiado de su espíritu luchador, vulgar, urgente; con su vivacidad regeneradora, despertaba en ella todas esas emociones de amor, de libertad, de vida… no había vuelta atrás pensaba… Aunque quería a su país, pensaba quedarse aquí, aunque sabía que no iba a ser fácil sobre todo cuando venías de una comunidad marginada, despreciada, caricaturizada… de una comunidad que tantos años vivió bajo protección de España, de un pueblo que vivió siempre en la sombra de esa mítica España, tan cerca y tan lejos…

Siempre dejaba en Aisha un sabor amargo el recuerdo de hombres marroquíes ya europeizados que daban vueltas y vueltas en su vecindario de Targuist, en sus coches majestuosos con placa de España, ostentando orgullo, virilidad y dinero…las chicas se enloquecían literalmente, soltaban risas histéricas, hacían todo para destacarse…se ponían al tanto de todo lo que pasaba en España, hasta hacían el esfuerzo de memorizar unas cuantas frases en español para impresionar al pretendiente, por si acaso se les presentara el gran honor y privilegio de montar en tal máquina mágica y preciosa…
Aisha recuerda que también su corazón palpitaba fuerte al pasar por su lado este trozo de paraíso lento y provocador ... recordaba las palabras edulcorantes, la súbita tentación que surgía de su profundo corazón que no le dejaba otra opción que montar rápido, rápido en el coche…y dejarse al capricho de este “europeo” que hablaba de la felicidad, dinero fácil, vida lujosa.
Desde niña, veía con envidia los que volvían de vacaciones de Europa, cargados hasta rebosar de regalos, walkmans, móviles... con todas estas novedades que no causaban sino maravilla y admiración en los ojos desorbitados de la familia…

Promesas, piensa ahora. Promesas falsas. Recuerda cuando llegó aquí por primera vez, tras el largo e interminable trayecto de Alhucimas hasta Almería, su cabeza estaba tumultuosa, vacía… extrañaba a toda su familia, a su madre en el puerto gritando, soltando todas las plegarias posibles, suplicando al buen Dios un futuro seguro y feliz para su única hija…ay Dios…la ingrata la dejaba, la dejaba sola…cómo iba a vivir ahora, ya en el umbral de la muerte… Luego vinieron los días de soledad, de dolor, de inseguridad, de encerramiento en casa, todo el día, esperando la llegada de su esposo. Y luego en las noches, la brusquedad con que hacía el amor, el dolor y miedo que sentía, el inmenso dolor y luego, quieta, yacía al lado del hombre hecho bulto, intentando recuperar la respiración normal, intentando transportarse a su pueblo para sacar fuerzas con las caras familiares, en los brazos reconfortantes de su madre…

'La literatura no sirve para nada útil: solo sirve para vivir más.' Javier Cercas.

intellingent passion

All she wanted was his kiss. she felt like drinking him in, ebriating herself with his touch, his saliva, his tongue. she felt like having him raw, savagely and frenetically. she wanted him and was not afraid to make the first move. in fact, she felt that that was almost what he expected.. if not, he just went along, stopping at the right moment, backing out at the very last minute. then she discovered his secret.
he was also looking for passion. but not merely carnal passion which he could get anywhere, from the street prostitute to the girl next door who often showed him her nudity for free.. he was looking for intelligent passion. a beauty with a brain which was fast becoming a scarce commodity. he thought he had found that in her. but after a few encounters, he realised that this one was like the others, no different. a Samantha, a Jessica, a María. in fact, she had all the pieces but they seemed to fit clumsily together. so that when he asked her opinion on the death of the author or when he probed her understanding of certain concepts like free will, fatalism, essentialism, her cracks would become so evident, that he would immediately withdraw, afraid of breaking them altogether and causing an unwanted boomerang. he still felt a tinge of passion for that body, that smile, those warm hands, that childish laughter which both annoyed and fasinated him...but he would soon get bored in her presence...
She began to feel the distance between them growing despite their regular encounters. her charm no longer seemed to mesmerise him. she tried dazzling him with that gold bracelete or that new sexy lip gloss but he would always have a distant, distracted look that seemed to come automatically to his face when he was near her. words like "slow", "silly", "unrefined" would regularly blot their dialogues, leaving huge, heavy stains imprinted on her heart for days. she needed to let go a little, but she couldn´t.
love was swallowing her up, effacing her ambitions, blinding her insights; she was not willing to surrender to defeat, not again. He was the one for her..she only had to make him see that too...