An article on Others

Here is an article on our Other Art Collective and the scene in Detroit.



read it here:
As-safir

Find out more here:
www.otherart.org

Let me know what you think...
(really, let me know, I don't read Arabic)

Pain procured for Palestinian progeny

When is it o.k., even cheered to kill a child? When that child is Palestinian and the world continues to reward Israel for their ethnic-cleansing.


Three Palestinian children in the Gaza Strip were killed when an Israeli tank opened fire on the Jabaliya refugee camp which is located in the north of Gaza. According to media reports, two children, 10 and 12 years-old, were killed immediately. Their cousin, a 12 year-old girl, was pronounced dead after efforts to save her life failed. This brings the number of Palestinian children killed during this week, as a result of Israeli military operations, to nine.

And it is all o.k. Silence makes it so....



This is nothing new…

A Jewish settler who clubbed a Palestinian child to death with a rifle butt was sentenced to six months' community service.

Soldiers from the Israeli Defence Force fired live ammunition repeatedly on a 12 year-old Palestinian boy. The IDF stated that it is not their policy to harm women and children.

As a 13 year-old Palestinian schoolgirl was walking home, A soldier cautioned his commander shouting, "Don't shoot. It's a little girl". The company commander, as the soldiers testifies, "approached her, shot two bullets into her [head], walked back towards the force, turned back to her, switched his weapon to automatic and emptied his entire magazine into her." An army investigation later cleared him of any "unethical conduct"

Three Palestinian school children were "accidentally" shot while in their classroom by Israeli soldiers. The troop commander said they were on routine patrol when they thought they saw a gun through a school window. They fired without warning killing the three children.

Three other Palestinian children were shot and killed by Israel. The children were targeted and killed as collective punishment for a local militia’s activity.

and it goes on, and on...

You killed a Palestinian child today.

They shuffle their feet in inches over hours as the metal barriers coral their frail bodies toward death. Destined for an agonizing demise, they can only hope that today is not their last day on this small swatch of stripped and stolen land. These were the people the world turned away from. These were children branded insignificant. These are the children being picked off by Israeli bullets while walking to school, while sleeping, while playing, while waiting for hours to cross a prison-like check point to go from home to school, these are children being picked off by Israeli bullets.

And it is all o.k.

silence makes it so.

finally found peace

it was hidden past the megastructures and the highways and the malls



it was a long trial to blaze



but it's there

August 13th is left handed day?

Today, I've just learned, is the 11th annual Left-Hander's Day. Sound's pretty bizzare to me. Why would there be such a day? To torture left-handers more than they have been? Is this like those scissors they made for lefties?



left handed myths

.luftnevenuefilsihtmaedshtolcgninruomnismrotsgninrawretfaecnelisdetcepxenu niemocllahshtaedyM

The backstory

I am Transient: part one…

As a journalist,
reporting on events and uncovering the truth as well as representing the voiceless were important ventures in my life.
I never new of the challenges I’d face in simply doing my job. Politics played a role in everything. Money controlled
everything. Gaining power meant more than human rights. Alliances meant more than human dignity. And I knew
journalism was dead. I gave it up, telling my publisher to “take this job and shove it.” From the pundits and the news for
hire to the corporate influence to the hidden foreign agendas one would be hard pressed to locate journalistic integrity.
All the rules were broken.

But just when I thought the situation was as dire as it could be
an event occurred that would highjack journalism and reshape it into something sophisticatedly evil. The 1992 Gulf war
ushered in a new era. Instant feedback of pics, stories and video meant everything had to be censored before the event.

The rise of technology is meant to serve us, yet it has derailed our thoughts and sedated our logic.

And then it got worse.
The events of 9/11 and the subsequent fear pedaling altered reality further.

In the post 9/11 era
it is important to represent yourself and your own voice since as I believe 9/11 was the final nail in journalism’s coffin. Our
voice has been mutilated and everything from our culture to our history to our image and the very words that come from
our mouths had been altered.

Not sure when
but in terms of my blogging experience and those around me, the 2006 war on Lebanon launched many bloggers and
many more readers. It was a treasure of information, counter opinion and visual evidence. The Arab Blogoshpeare did
wonders to lift spirits that had given up hope of truth’s survival.

My first blog
After the loss of my younger brother I gave up writing. After his burial, as I returned to the US, the war started. The
frustration with traditional media, the need to vent and the need for an outlet of emotion led me to my first blog. At first, I
blogged about the war by recounting my relatives’ experiences, then followed with stats about the war, artwork and
various political statements. I settled in after the war with everything from politics to poetry. I began to notice other
bloggers doing the same; it was at that point that I realized the real worth of an Arab on-line presence.

The Arab voice could be heard
in a crisp, concise manner. The beauty of it all is that I learned more about Arab dynamic and the complexity and diversity of what is an Arab than any TV show or book I’ve read or from the limited experiences of a hyphenated soul stuck in transit. I was sure many non-arabs were getting the same lessons. The interactions of people online seemed honest and stripped of the political correctness that conceals the stabbing knife.

Now the rise of technology serves us as it was meant to do.
The advent of cheaper technology and it’s ubiquity assured that you can’t censor or silent everyone. Since anyone could
send video to millions of people to witness events for them selves to combat reports to the contrary, everyone with a
camcorder or a digital camera or a blog or even just an email address could act as a reporter.

Sites I frequent vary from the hard-core political to artists to peacenik philosophers to Arab sites that can not be categorized. They all have their time and value in making the Arab Blogosphere instrumental in regaining our stolen voice. Perhaps there is hope after all.

"No End In Sight"

An insiders film about the war on Iraq and the military planning, preparation and preparedness, in theatres July 27th.



http://www.noendinsightmovie.com/

Not that anything will change, but...

check out this report from the ADC on Israel's war crimes from last year's war on Lebanon. http://www.adc.org/PDF/Lebrep.pdf



It's been a year, people are already expecting the sequel.

five ramblings of a textured stone

As the wind swiftly crashed the tent around me leaving my flesh exposed to piercing droplets of acidic rain, I woke stumbling a lethargic grog trying to catch up to the half-spent night. I always lament the incomplete dream halted by necessitated waking hours not longing for longer sleep, but an urge to see a vision through that hints a path of my future battles is turned away.

I walk. As though not accustomed to limbs carrying this burdening weight, I stagger my pace into tree limbs for stability. Losing control is not as devastating as I had once feared.

The fear comes in exciting doses of shifting concerns rushing in increasing intervals till time mashes all to one overwhelming isolation. The laboring rain is gone. Even the trees are gone.

I’m left to roam a parched earth weary of my steps. I can not float. Perhaps the vision is meant to abandon. As a child I witnessed my impending doom. This was a vision I could grasp. As an adult the vision alarms into an aim broader with me surviving for moments longer to serve. I remain idle.

As the wind reshapes my forgotten face into guiltless smirks that keep suspicious strangers from attacking, I seek coyly a silent cave trying to pray a solution, waiting for sleep to recapture a wondering mind urging a vision complete.