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...

amor asesino

Hush, hush,
Wish I could take your pain away
Wish I could share another dawn with you
Quiero ver el rojo del amanecer
Un nuevo día brillará, she sang

Sit in the hallowed halls of church
Shout at the silence
Revel in your sins
You are resisting,
You are free
Come, take my hand,
Lead me to your sanctuary
Light me a candle
Pay it forward

Two steps forward, one backward
Sing me that song,
Amor en blanco y negro
Love me in black and white
Only you can kiss away that sting,
Only you can penetrate me
Merge my pain and sorrow
Into a fairy tale happiness

Why do you hate me?
All I want from you is love
I have so much to give you,
I dedicate my life to you
Look- I´m writing your name with my blood
I won’t ever let you go…

I have reached my end
I’m calling out to you
Won´t you listen, won´t you listen
I´m whispering
in a whimper
I dedicate my life to love
Love..love..love…

chaguanas

Chaguanas, central Trinidad. dirty streets. families or crippled folks begging. pirate music everywhere in carts that quickly disappear at the site of police, that reappear in the middle of the streets or at the side of the market or at the entrance to the busy gas station. maxi taxis that spill over and the conductor that spill out soliciting passengers- family! sweets! round d road? short? Munroe Road?. street vendors- drinks, pastries, panties, false handbags, shoes, toys, false everything. Beautiful women in clothing so tight you wonder how they were able to get into it..smells of KFC mixed with the stench of clogged drains, mixed with the honking of angry drivers, mixed with flies and music and chattering. eyes that meet and introduce themselves, men who steal glances at the women´s behinds darting quickly over to see if their wives noticed. Sleepy Chaguanes rise up to the challenge of modernisation.

Forgotten

I remember the first day of school. i remember how my mother left me and said she would be back shortly and i only saw her again in the evening. in a way, it felt like a betrayal that would repeat itself many times. like the time she left me infront of Hilo supermarket, told me she would be back in a few minutes which turned into an hour or at least that was how it felt.. i remember thinking maybe she forgot where she left me or maybe something happened to her and she would never be back or maybe she ddint want me and had abandonned me there... i remember going to the dentist and removing all my teeth (or almost) and returning home, numb, not knowing exactly what had happened, only that there was alot of blood and something was very wrong. i remember the many visits to the dentist after that and the immense fear i had inside, so much so that i would throw up every time the spit suction was put in my mouth... i remember trying to learn to swim and the immense fear i had that i would drown so that after a semester, i still failed the exam...i remmeber trying to play volleyball or even badminton but because of bad coordination, i was just lowsy and would only help my side loose... i remember not being able to let go and let be.

do you remember when you shit yourself in grade one? you needed to go to the toilet baad but you were too afraid to ask permission or even move and then u begged it to not come out but then you couldn´t help yourself.. then when the smell was evident, you still refused to let yourself be humilliated so you sat there until the teacher went around smelling everyone, until she got to you...then they took you home, putting sheets of newspaper on the seats so it wouldnt smell of shit. do you remember that reading competition you entered and didnt know you had to answer questions after which you couldn´t do and so, tried to copy from the girl next to you? Do you remember how you were ashamed of your lunch at school and would prefer to starve than take out the oily brown paper which your mother had so carelessly wrapped the roti in? or the time you lied and said you had peanut butter and jelly sandwich and even showed your egg crumbs to the girl next to you insisting it was peanut butter? do you remember all the times you would steal small things from the supermarket and secretly give it to your teachers so they could like you? or the times you would remove all the labels from the Grace tins from the shelves to trade in for the Grace schoolbag which the rats eventually destroyed because you had left your food in it from the day before? Do you remember the times riding to the little market and trying to escape the dogs who smelled your fear and seemed to be waiting for only you? or the time you grudgingly went to deliver milk and the dogs rushed after you pulling your skirt down?

or the time in the school yard when jokes were being circulated about your no-teeth mother? Or about your raisin legs or about your large nose which seemed to overpower your entire face?

Well, these are the bits and pieces you wanted to have erased. Done!

I know adding quotations is not very original...but there are some which seem to express what we feel inside but just can´t bring to the surface, or some that we identify so much with that we don´t want to even dissemble it for fear of dismembering the idea...or some that that just takes us to this strange land and leaves us there for a while, with a mild breeze on our face and body.. here´s one of them i like from The History of Love by Nicole Krauss-
Now that mine is almost over, I can say that the thing that struck me most about life is the capacity for change. one day you´re a person and the next day they tell you youré a dog. At first it´s hard to bear, but after a while you learn not to look at it as a loss. there´s even a moment when it becomes exhilarating to realise just how little needs to stay the same for you to continue the effort they call, for lack of a better word, being human.

Lilith turned Eve

M often thought that life had no meaning anymore for her. it was now more than three months since she discovered her husband was having an affair with a beautiful, elegant and sophisticated young woman. she was close to 35 and she felt old, unhappy and very alone. She knew she couldn´t confide in her family, not even her brother whom she adored. She remembers how she felt when she discovered their messages which her husband had naively saved to his computer, she still remembers the way she felt when she saw all those words her husband never once said to her, how she felt numb, like life had all but stopped. She remembered calling him- because he was away on a supposed study trip- and faking she was very ill in the hospital just so he could come home and confront her wrath... but he never showed until days after with some lame excuse like his phone was turned off...

He eventually told her he broke off the relationship, although he was bitter, harsh and extremely cold towards her now. He would often call her witch, old fag, nut case and a dunce. This was the only man she had ever lived for in the last 12 years. she couldnt imagine her life without his presence, although admittedly, she knew she was always alone.. always has been.. didn´t he tell her earlier on that he never loved her and only saw her as a mother? Wasnt she the one who helped and nurtured him all along his career, so that he could speak five languages, publish many books and also pick up young girls....

She didnt have the guts to leave. she couldnt leave. So she stayed and hoped that things would get better, that he would realise he needed her and wanted her with him. So she stood her ground and tried not to crumble each time he told her how stupid she was, how ugly and unattractive she was... how annoying she was.. many days she would just sleep under her covers and not get up until many many hours had passed...she didnt even feel hungry anymore..he had lost all her zeal, all her confidence, all hope... why didn´t she see this coming, she would often ask herself. why did this happen to her? What did she do wrong? didnt she give him everything, sacrifiing that dress she loved, or that visit to the hairdresser and that much needed balm for her sore feet? All that so he could could participate in this congress, or speak at that university, or do a course at that institute.. when did she become blind? Wasnt she the same woman who knew how to charm men and wrap them around her fingers and play with them like puppets on a string... wasnt she that same woman who left many a man dreaming of her eyes and her body at night? And when did this all change she asked herself?

What was left for her? She knew she couldnt leave him. she had pleaded with him to reason, promised to change and be what he wanted, she would smile when he insulted her, despite that raw pain that ebbed at her insides...she was willing to do anything to remain by his side.. because after all, a lonely woman was worse off...

News (noticias)/ “chisme” (gossip)- where do you draw the line?

More and more, gossip pieces and other trivialities are taking over and usurping what we have traditionally known as “news”. Like the other day, I was laughing with some friends about a story- the way it was reported of course- from the Trinidad Express newspaper about a thief who broke into a grandmother´s house and stole her Christmas gift and even slippers. The story went on about how the shameless thief broke into this very old, poor lady´s house, lamenting at the state the country was in etc.. I mean, where do we draw the line here? Why can´t they simply report the story without giving us generous doses of their lamentations, moral comments and other paraphernalia? One friend smirkingly remarked that in “small island Trinidad”, that was what passed off as news- “chismes” and other anecdotes… of course it is unfair to judge the quality of a newspaper by this isolated story and that’s not the point anyway… just that more and more, we are becoming indifferent to diluted, poor, distorted and frivolous reporting…that what goes on, for example, in Victoria Beckham´s life takes precedence over say…some disaster or some more edifying news piece about art or culture etc… which brings me to what I wanted to write about. This is the headline that caught my eye and gave me a good laugh even though I didn’t read the entire story- La madre del niño obeso de Asturias murió de anorexia. Los abuelos reclaman la custodia y acusan al Gobierno del Principado de "rapto". It was all so surreal reading the little extract. That a kid, whose mother died of anorexia, was 10 years old and weighs 100 kilos!!!! Is this a record for extremes? Did the mother revert to starving herself with the daily mirror-confrontation of her obese kid?! The story only gets weirder. After her death, he was taken in to live with his grandparents, but he was removed by the government of Asturias in order to be put under a diet regime. Ok, now here’s the thing- the grandparents are crying kidnap! and “encima” they make a comment like this one- estaba gordín, pero sano como un coral. Hahah!! Who are these people kidding? Or maybe with age, their perceptions have become hyperbolically distorted?! So this is the kind of news pieces we are more and more being bombarded by…which we content ourselves with daily in a world that is more fantastic than real. No wonder García Marquez gets so much good raw material for his magical realism from the very reality which never ceases to amaze…