"#TorontoStrong", Sometimes: On collective grief & who has access to it

This morning I woke up to a torrent of tweets and news stories about the mass shooting that happened last night on Danforth Rd. here in Toronto. A now (alarmingly) familiar formula was followed which included the deployment of the #TorontoStrong hashtag, the obsessive eagerness to (erroneously) quantify the number of victims in real time, and the rallying cries for unity by politicians and police chiefs. But while all these measures have come to constitute what we may now consider "normal"--a disturbing realization in and of itself--at the heart of this collective grief is a specific kind of mourning reserved for certain spaces (and their populations). This is reflected in euphemistic claims about how "safe" the neighbourhood continues to be, and in comments such as that of Andrea Horwath in city hall this morning:

"This tragedy does not reflect the Danforth, the city, or the province." 

There are several ways we can analyze such statements. For example, we can argue about how such incidents do in fact reflect the community, the parts of it that we avert our eyes from. Though it may be too early in this moment, we can look more and more at the bigger picture on mental health and access to guns, for example. Perhaps this sort of public grief is rooted in a self-centred empathy: the belief that innocent people should not face such untold tragedy represents our anxieties about such tragedy being visited upon us, or those we love. On the other hand, we can commend such a view for challenging the tendency to conflate an individual's actions with their entire neighbourhood, community, family, environment. The issue is that this nuanced discursive approach is only applied to specific narratives and neighbourhoods.

During a time of heightened fear--and fear-mongering--around what has been called "The Summer of The Gun 2.0", there has been no shortage of news covering what is often presented as a spike in gun violence, and the defaulted to "gang violence". Upon landing at the airport a few weeks ago, the first jumbo TV screen I noticed carried story after story about a string of shootings that had occurred while I was gone. Headlines scream alarmist claims like "Toronto homicide rates higher than NYC", and almost every public conversation involves a debate around the need to deploy (and employ) more police. 

As ultimate example of the way these tragedies are collectively handled, Community Safety and Corrections Minister Michael Tibollo was recently quoted as saying,

  "I went out to Jane and Finch, put on a bulletproof vest...visiting sites that had previously had bullet-ridden people killed in the middle of the night..."

If the rallying cries to remember that the Danforth community (a.k.a "Greektown") is transcendent of such violent tragedy represents much-needed relativism, then comments and actions such as those of Tibollo represent a negligent essentialization.  Rather than share in the grief of a community already affected by unimaginable loss and direct trauma, they are subjected to further stigmatization, even to blame. These environments are to be targeted for strategic intervention, and at the very least, to be handled separately and carefully with gloves--or a bullet-proof vest. It's as though the neighbourhood's inhabitants are deserving of, responsible for, or to be held guilty for the tragedy that unfolds right around them. Not only does this problematic view assume the inherent criminality of some spaces, it is a faulty logic that obscures structural dynamics of inequality that transcend a neighbourhood's boundaries.

Everytime I skim a major publication's coverage, or read what another politician said, it feels like 2005 all over again--the original "Summer of The Gun". As a result of those events and the way they were portrayed, I watched the neighbourhood I grew up in specifically, and the surrounding region (shoutout to Scarborough) become entangled in a targeted intervention that did little more than stigmatize it and solidify all the stereotypes that served as part of the mythology that forms our space(s).

Guaranteed Basic Income

Free Lunch Sociey trailer


I watched this engaging documentary on my return flight and I've been thinking about its contents ever since. Free Lunch Society explores the idea of a guaranteed basic income: a payment made to individuals that ensures a minimum income level, regardless of employment status. It features discussions among economists, political scientists, sociologists, and other -ists about its advantages  and disadvantages. Interspersed in the debates is a collection of archival footage, including Martin Luther's resistance struggle against President L.B.J's "war on poverty".

 The film provides a good introduction and presents the idea as a realistic possibility—highlighting different communities that have already experimented with the concept—rather than a romantic radical fantasy. In fact, the Ontario government just finished the first phase of a basic income pilot project in Hamilton, with plans to launch in Brantford, Brant County, Lindsay and Thunder Bay.

bad at comforting

I held my mother as she cried today. I sat next to her on the couch and reached my arms all around, expecting her to brush me away as usual. She didn't, and in those moments her body felt so much smaller than mine. The numbness which I had been cloaking myself with against the all day attacks suddenly cracked. As it slipped away I felt a raw anger pointed at our attacker--the source of mom's tears.
I leaned in and squeezed tighter the harder she sobbed, the more she apologized for what she could've, should've, would've done to put an end to all this. For a second I let myself imagine that I was transferring my numbness, that perhaps in exchange for her pain I could loan her some of my indifference. But in this equation, it was only the misery that had been multiplied.

I've always felt unskilled when it comes to providing comfort in times of grief; I freeze, I get awkward. I either cant't say the right thing or say too much. That in turn makes me feel more guilty. But no matter what, there are few worse feelings than watching your mother fall apart and knowing there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Dis(tress)patches from the Archives

I have this habit of thinking in third person.

“As she adjusted some more books on the shelf, the framed picture caught her attention and she wondered how it could ever be that her eyes had once looked so bright and innocent.”

I don’t know when it started, but sometime during my coming up I began to describe the situations around me as they unfolded—to myself, in my own head, as a witness.

I think it developed from all the books I read. I think it developed as a necessary device for a kid who always spent more time in her head than out.

Now, I think it’s a coping mechanism, or a subconscious escapism. Either way, it somehow gives me a momentary disassociation, or perhaps a hyper-association that quickly displaces the me.

“She shut the door behind her and scampered to her bed, a sense of defeat in each step. The warm damp air of another summer night flowed through the window and she knew she would somehow have to force herself to sleep. She lay in the soft lump of her blankets distracted by thoughts of just how many crickets chirped from below…”

I write this way too. Even when I tell my stories, sharp memories that still make me feel the way they did when they happened. Sometimes I wonder if even my tendency to turn my “I”s into “she”s and “we”s is not a good enough disguise. Its like maybe I don’t know how to belong to a story in a way that doesn’t betray it. That doesn’t betray me.

“A loud, clunky bang below suddenly seized the moment, and her eyes darted up from the page. Heart banging out of her chest, the book fell to the floor as she stood up to throw herself against the door.”

Truth be told, I don’t even want to be in the stories.

(2014)

Talk like an egyptian... Or Walk

"This is Christine, my Egyptian friend!"

It's an introduction I have heard since I was a little girl. Since that age when kids started to get wind of the world outside of their home, school, neighbourhood, city; when they've started to absorb the mythology handed down to them through TV and parents/caregivers. It's the preface that prepares me for the inevitable questions about riding on camels, or the incredulous remarks about the corpses of others (i.e mummies).

"Egypt, I've always wanted to visit," the gentleman declares with a  smile.

Ah yes, one of the most common reactions I get, which notifies me right away that the person who has made this claim has clearly never visited--or even spoken to anyone who has.

"...the pyramids, how are they? I've always been amazed by them..."

And I have always been amazed by how unimaginative people's references are as soon as they hear mention of a place they've only ever heard about in mythical ways. I give in, stitching together an equally generic response--replete with cheesy pun--about how no matter how many times you see them, they never get old.

"I've been everywhere--from Sri Lanka to Jordan to Samoa--but Egypt and The Serengeti are still on my list."

At this, my interest returns. Surely someone this well-travelled, with enough familiarity of places the average Canadian snowbird wouldn't normally consider, might have a slightly more nuanced view than that offered by movies like The Mummy.

"Do you speak the language?"--and before I could answer-- "Say something in egyptian!"

I pause and consider my options. It would be so much easier to let this man babble on about the mythical Egypt he has seen in movies, and besides, I'm starting to grow weary. Acting as ambassador to a place I myself am hardly familiar enough with is tiring. Being "the first (second, or third) Egyptian I've ever met!" is diminishing. I don't want to perform the "subaltern stereotype squasher" role into perpetuity. But a huge part of me understands that staying quiet and letting the lazy stereotypes get swapped around is fraught with its own dangers.

***

Earlier, a friend of a friend is delighted to learn that I have just returned from Cairo.

"My mom is going there with a bunch of her friends in a few months. I'm so jealous."

I smile and say something in agreement. I imagine what it would be like if my own mother did things like travel the world with her friends. The idea comforts me, though I know the likelihood of it playing out in reality is slim.

"...Yeah they're going on a whole tour of the area. Jordan, Egypt, Jerusalem..."

The warm thought bubble suddenly bursts and I find myself biting back the urge to launch into a diatribe about the Israeli occupation. I stay quiet, and the shame from that nestles itself into the heart of my conscience, where it resurfaces in this moment of exchange.

***

I am in the middle of correcting this man, of explaining the difference between Egyptian and Arabic, of clarifying that I am not a Muslim and that not all Egyptians are, of debunking his cartoonish version of a vivid place fresh in my memory, when he says it:

"Can you walk like an Egyptian?'

***

Dis[tress]patches

The uncertainty of it all is the most stressful part.

You could be in the clutches of a deep, comfortable sleep when the terrifying shrieks yank you right back. The screaming is soon accompanied by wailing and for a brief, dizzying moment you wonder if perhaps you haven't awoke at all. Perhaps you have been thrust into a nightmare; except somewhere in your consciousness you recognize this brand of chaos. You try to ignore it at first, try to shut your eyes and even put a pillow over your head. This pathetic attempt at disassociation only makes the swelling combination of foolish curiosity and illogical guilt grow larger. Soon they have taken full control of your body--you are up and reaching for the controls on the tower fan, switching off the liberating gusts of cool air and sonic relief. Now you can make out the ramble more clearly. Curse words are hurled in a  staccato, rapid-fire assault at no target in particular. You swallow back a clod of misplaced guilt, the kind that witnesses to traumatic events and survivors are left with, despite knowing they could have done nothing to alter destiny. You know better than to step into the line of fire. Besides, all desire to perform the noble sacrificial lamb role have evaporated over time and have been replaced by a collective resentment. There's nothing you can do but save yourself, you try to repeat to your distracted mind. The booming thumps of footsteps made heavy with rage get louder--it's coming for you. You throw your full weight behind the door--and your faith in its ability to keep the threat at bay...

Insomniac Soliloquies to Self

it's 4 am and i find myself wide awake, twisting from side to side as though the furtive movements will eventually tire me out before finally giving in and sitting up. i turn on the lamp next to my bed--touch activated, a novelty in the 1980s it clearly dates to--and reach for my phone and the book I am halfway through reading. of course, this is purely for symbolic purposes, or maybe an incorrigible habit i adopted before my phone became an extra limb.

after distractedly shuffling through a montage of facebook videos-- old couples on vacation, white people calling the cops on black people for absurd reasons, a vice video about something to do with a fake fashion show (or restaurant, or drug, etc.)...

suddenly i am fixated by the image of a boy, no older than 14, whose hands are expertly binding together slats of timber using what appears to be a natural twill of some sort. he builds a cylindrical wall around a hole he has already dug out, his hands moving efficiently and gracefully, creating the perfect structure. with the miracle of time-lapse he soon creates a wheel out of hollow logs carefully woven together, and a mechanism attached to the wheel which allows for several "cups" to successively dispense water from the water reserve below. voila-- a well.

thinking about this boy's masterful use of hands, the aptitude with which he designed and created this whole thing machine before my very eyes, i hear that tormenting voice in the back of my head and i start to wonder. if a 5 minute time-lapsed video of my skill was to be made, what would it show? beyond the soup of cliche resume points, like "team player" (am i really?), or "excellent communication skills" (they're okay), what real skills do i have?...

somewhere between wondering what college program i can quickly enroll in to overcome this, and blaming my parents for not forcing me to study something more tangible, more valued in "the real world", i slip back into sleep mode...

Hello, Again...

It's been exactly one week since I came back from my short trip to Cairo.

While away, I

• saw more sides to the city (I once thought I knew intimately) than I have in my decades of going back combined
• fell in love with Cairo
• drank more 3aseer asab (sugarcane juice) & street food than I ever thought my stomach could handle
• experienced freedom there in ways I have never been able to--at times it felt borrowed, or too good to be true
• fell out of love with Cairo
• remembered what it was like to want to write, instead of feel guilty over the fact that I should want to write but have no desire to
• didn't get to see the pyramids, but came to peace with the fact that they've been there for at least a few thousand years, and will likely be there when I return...

In the week since I have been here, I

• caught a bad cold that was probably not as bad as it seemed, but seemed to conveniently match my mood since returning
• finally received my delayed luggage--though, truth be told, I was low-key hoping I would never have to see it again (i.e. deal with more clothes than I already have)
•  have felt more compelled than ever to regularly write, and perhaps return to the blog world
• thought about all of the ways I can get back out of this city
• come to terms with the reality that Toronto isn't all that bad after all, and I should probably work on changing my perspective

So let's give this thing another try, shall we?

The Airplane Boys: Born to Be VISUALS

BORN TO BE

The Airplane Boys

Director, Editor and D.O.P: Warren Credo

Produced by Stampede Management

Styling and Still Photography: Justin Create

Production Assistance: Justin Li, Kyle Credo, Kenny Enrera, Brian Nagallo, Jamie Fernandes and Chris Drakes

I was actually awed by the sheer art of this film. Amazing video for a great song off of The Airplane Boys' "Where Have You Been" tape.
Enjoy!

Download it at:
http://www.theairplaneboys.com/

The Sacred Oath of un-Hurt

I can almost see the words spewing out of my mouth before I can even stop and think about them first. The strange combination of anger, unchecked emotion, and a spiritual exhaustion that can only come from years of bottling everything up. Accusations come flying out, and my unjust unappreciation takes centre-stage. The messages become muddled into one long torrent of bitterness. They cease to make sense, cease to even be true, but what do I care-- I just want their crushing impact to be felt.
How could you look someone in the eye who you love and deliver stab after stab to their soul? Simple: by consciously trying to avoid listening to the own vile messages escaping your mouth.
How could you pretend their quickly appearing tears mean nothing, instead choosing to dismiss them as reflections of your own hurt and angst?
Most importantly, how could you bear the weight of defeating one of the only people in the world who's ever cared for you. The person who has had your back, even when you found yourself spineless. The person who watched from afar, but never too far, allowing you to be who you are, and then loving you for it.
How could you betray the most sacred oath made in a relationship between two broken people who found in eachother their own missing pieces: the promise you each took never to do to eachother what others had already done far too often...

How do you regain the sense of lost love and trust, if you ashamedly cower in your own solitude, trying in vain to convince yourself that you don't need them anyway...

Voting is sexy!

We live in such a wired, digital age, and we're constantly bombarded with new media sources. Add to that the popularity of things like Twitter and an abundance of current issues that should be important to us, and you should have a high rate of young voters, right? Wrong. Canadian youth are some of the most underrepresented at the elections, so it's important to go out and show that you are worth more than your tax dollars!
READ up on party platforms, think of things that represent your own values and ideas, and most importantly- look at track records in your own ridings. There is NO reason why you, as a Canadian citizen, with your own set of values, and 10 minutes to spare out of your schedule WONT go out to vote.
Its our moral, civic and awakened (if you will) duty as people to elect the people who will lead in our societies...

BUT, if this all sounds boring to you, I'll just let Nelly Furtado tell you:

Okay, so perhaps I wouldn't have really said that way, and yes I admit this video made me cringe a bit, but I LOVE the underlying message: VOTE!

The hero-villain dichotomy

The idea of the hero is one that seems to preoccupy Western culture, forming the basis for much of the literature, film, philosophy, and other popular-culture mediums that compose it. Our willingness to decorate soldiers and firefighters, play cops and robbers, obsessively consume old Western cowboy films or ancient mythology, and immortalize comic-book super-heroes all point to our eagerness to ascribe “hero” and “villain” roles. However, as one often comes to conclude, we must take a more discretional approach when examining who is a hero, and conversely, who is a villain. In fact, the issue is far more complex than a mere categorization of individuals or groups under either of these titles—most of the time, things are not always so black and white. Recently I devoured a book that reawakened these exact sentiments in me:

In her collection of poems under the title Ghettostocracy, Canadian author, poet, and spoken-word artist extraordinaire Oni the Hatian Sensation reawakens the “Black” community with a strong message: in order to understand the community’s needs and work to rebuild it, we must first work from within. An important step in this process is to reexamine the important figures that we collectively hold to be heroes. Oni invites readers to reassess our widely-accepted, if not imposed, understanding of what it means to be a hero or a villain in a number of ways. One important approach Oni takes is to present alternate perceptions of the hero and villain archetypes in our society by referencing specific individuals and general archetypes.
One of the most obvious themes in the Ghettostocracy poems is epitomized in her presentations of characters such as cops, politicians, church leaders, etc.—all who share the common denominator of being categorized as archetypal heroes in modern society. In fact, what Oni’s work suggests is that such figures are more often the “villains” than they are the “heroes”. Conversely, in her presentation of the “hood-hero” (inner-city neighbourhood “hero”), Oni shows that what mainstream society has deemed villainous may actually be held as valiant by certain members of society.

One of these perceived hero-types is characterized by “Reverend Seymour Cash”. This self-proclaimed “man of God” (who was at onetime a pimp) is still nothing more than a corrupt, greedy, evil man who exploits the community he pretends to uplift. Rev. Seymour, as Oni explains in the poem “Ghettostocracy” has “just raped the ghetto to escape into the upper class.” When he is presented again in the poem “Church” Seymour Cash is still the “sinistah ministah” he was in “Ghettostocracy”, this time explicitly partaking in deviant sexual activity with members of his clergy; one of the most revered community leaders, often looked to for moral guidance and leadership, is reduced to nothing short of a villain.

Other such embodiments of this concept are the cops and politicians found throughout Ghettostocracy. Unlike the courageous, caring, public-service-providing figures mainstream society idealizes such characters as, Oni’s references present them as detrimental, dishonest, and doing less to help the community than to exploit it. For example, she challenges the heroic legitimacy of our elected officials and politicians in “Elocution”, suggesting that the only way these people attain such sight-after positions is through a combination of sexual deviance and manipulation:

“Illiterate children in high school  

Sucking teacher’s dick to get through

Shortly, they are on their way to college-acknowledged.

Some get raped and graduate,

Then become head of state…” 

Such lines also draw attention to the tragic cycle, suggesting that had these “children” been properly guided and educated, rather than exploited by their teachers, they may have acted as positive agents within the community instead.

 Even the United Nations is not spared from this criticism. Rather than actually function effectively, if at all, Oni renders the U.N crippled, helpless, and compliant in their silence in the poem “Why Keep Score”:

“United Nations, who are we?

Invisible witnesses to world catastrophes.” 

But perhaps the most-visited hero archetypes in Ghettostocracy are the cops. We live in a society that largely idealizes the role of the cop in the personal lives of community members. But, the cop characters in the Ghettostocracy poems are instead portrayed as brutal, unjust, and racist, effectively blurring the line between cop and criminal. We are first introduced to this motif of villainous police in “New York Streets”:

“Police, cops, walking the beat,

On their feet, in the streets,

Are beating big Black boys, with their toys…” 

This scathing criticism is revisited in “I Am Not Ashamed To Say That I Am in Pain”, as she comments on what she perceives to be a lack of “morality” from our police heroes:

“Morality?

Hah! Most police aint got none:

Pulling triggers on a gun,

Aiming at the young (cause they think its fun),

Having brothers on the run until their lives are done…” 

Ghettostocracy is rife with references to popular cultural “hero-villain” figures- two of the more notable references being, first to Al Capone, then to Michael Jackson. In “What Happened to Michael Jackson?”, Oni attacks the race message she insists Michael Jackson makes through his orientation to typically “white” norms. When asked by her son whether he too will “be white when I grow up?” Oni replies that rather than naturally progressing to this, Micheal Jackon’s bleached skin and “political perm” are nothing more than sad attempts to surrender his “blackness”, playing into “hollyweird’s” obsession with trying to “make black colours nonexistent”. Oni’s critique of Michael Jackson reaches its climax when she suggests that Micheal Jackson is aware of this black demonization, but continues to sustain it: “Me thinks that Michael Jackson really knows this…”.

In “Gangster Alliance”, Oni speaks about the rampant gang violence within inner-city communities, particularly the streak of violence in South Central L.A in 2002. Oni’s allusion to Al Capone is particularly interesting in that she seems to absolve him from wrongdoing in this specific instance, a blame that has been imposed on the notorious mobster explicitly and implicitly by those in power. Al Capone is on one hand often characterized as a ruthless, manipulative, violent man of crime, and his legacy is often that of giving birth to organized crime in America. Whether this is wholly or in part true is of little concern to Oni, and as she suggests, should not be to us. The “inner city war zones” she speaks of in “Gangster Alliance” are “not caused by Al Capone”. On the other hand, Al Capone’s services to his community cannot altogether be ignored by his participation in criminal activity, as exemplified by his common characterization as a Robin Hood in popular culture. Oni asserts this dichotomy in “Iambic Pain”:

“Moors are not bandits

Some are misunderstood.

Robin Hood was cool-

Trotting on minions rule…” 

Oni’s reference to Al Capone implies this idea of dual-identity—what some may view as hero, others view as villain, but who is right? Perhaps, as the character in “Making Scents” exclaims “And to think I once thought you were a winner!” what the community would benefit much more from is a reassessment of those people they deem “winner”- or heroes...

Canadian author, poet, and spoken-word artist extraordinaire Oni the Hatian Sensation

I came across these AWESOME Simpsonsesque images done by digital artist Meowza Katz. Each of the Simpsons-inspired images is a rendition of some of the most recognized, famous pieces done by well known artists.

Check it out:

Here is a version of Edvard Munch's The Scream , originally done in variations between 1893-1910:

And of course, a version of Andy Warhol's 1960s-era Marilyn Monroe piece:

One of the most recognized and parodied pieces done by Grant Woods in 1930, American Gothic:

And no set of renditions would be complete without a Vincent van Gogh piece, this one is his Self Portrait done in 1889:

                                                                            

"Old Money" Junos sketch ft. Drake & the elderly

I didn't get to watch the Juno's (work + a paper), but a friend shared this with me and I thought it was sooo hilarious!
I heard a lot of back and forth complaining that the Juno's just used Drake "to get more ratings" (since the Grammy-nominated, successful rapper didn't win in a single of the 6 categories he was nominated in, and that the hiphop category wasn't even aired). Well we can definitely see why going with Drake as a host was a good idea, 'cause in typical Drake-style, dude was a crowd-pleaser:

OLD MOOLA BABY!

looool

"Hip Hop is Bigger Than the Occupation"

Existence is Resistance Presents: Hip Hop is Bigger Than the Occupation

"A Film By Existence is Resistance and Nana Dankwa about a musical tour to Palestine teaching resistance through the arts. Featuring M1 of Dead Prez, Lowkey, Shadia Mansour, Marcel Cartier, Mazzi of S.O.U.L. Purpose, DJ Vega Benetton, SWYC, University of Hip Hop, Jody McIntyre and many more.... for more information on upcoming tours and about the organization please click here"

Gonna try my best to find out about when and where this film is released...

In the dark, even my shadow abandons me...

Today when I left class I found myself hysterically running to the station, yet in no real rush to get anywhere. I hit the ground running and literally did not look back (or around, at the startled expressions of my fellow pedestrians) until I’d made it to the station and became distracted with the fare-paying.

But do you ever wish you could literally just pick up and runaway from life? Run, to no particular destination but away. Rush, with no time restraint, but with the intention of outrunning your thoughts?

As I felt the wind toying with my hair, resisting against my force I forgot to think. For that instance, for even that brief, fleeting moment, I could forget. Or maybe not forget, as the thoughts came rushing back as soon as I sat down, but rather ignore.  Every doubt that had been spewed in my face, every reminder of my countless fuckups, and every angry, bitter, disappointed, mournful voice- everything was silent.

All I could hear, all I could focus on was the rhythm of my steps on the concrete. The rhythm compelling me to keep running, because stopping even for a moment would undo all the unthinking I was doing.

But life doesn’t work that way. You get onto the metaphorical subway, nestled among dozens of your own kind, yet alone and an outsider at the same time. No friendly words or smiles exchanged, and no small talk about the weather outside. And that’s when it all comes rushing in, hitting you like a ton of bricks, one-by-one but within seconds of eachother. A jumble of words, images, phrases and thoughts come flying at you, aimed at your spirit and unrelentless until they do what they came here for: to break you down. Like an unexpecting matador suddenly thrown into a pen of raging bulls, each bearing a haunting resemblance to your own image…

Where can you run now? When you're surrounded? Yet alone...

Floresta Amazônica

As a kid, we all that one thing we were tooootally interested in, for our own silly reasons.
But while my friends (and yours too, probably) collected Pokemon cards, built dinosaur models, or exchanged Barbie shoes, I was into rainforests.
Like, my obsession was bordering on hysteria. I would collect facts, browse through pictures in books, and try to convince my mom to "adopt" acres of the Amazon.
So today I decided to reignite that old childhood flame and came across these amazing pictures...

Israel- the "democratic" state??

Last year was Israeli Apartheid Week in Toronto and each day saw at least a couple of events stretched across Toronto's university campuses. As I was rushing to class last week (U of T) I happened to see a couple of students set up on a table with posters reading "Support Israeli Democracy" and such. Now, I just HAD to stop and see exactly what sort of misguided propaganda they appeared to be trying to spread. As I got closer to their posters, I noticed they were full of all sorts of numbers: statistics from the U.N (mainly) and some Israeli-lobbyist groups.
The first thing I thought about was why on earth they would use U.N "official" definitions and sources to explain why Israel should be allowed to carry out its terrorist agenda in the name of democracy.
Lets just remember here that of the 115-member states of the U.N's General Assembly, THE ONLY COUNTRIES WHO SUPPORT ISRAEL'S ACTIONS ARE (*drumroll*):
- The U.S
- Micronesia,
- the Marshall Islands
- Palau (all 3 of which are associated states of the U.S)
- Australia
- and Canada (ashamedly, under Stephen Harper)

Anyway, I gotta attach the fine print here: I'm not anti-semitic, I'm anti-the STATE of Israel & any ideas grounded in the belief that some people are more entitled to the world than others (ahem, Zionism, ahem). I do not support the Harper government (lets leave it at that). And of course, I'm in a firm believer in the democracy & the right to self-determination, but like my fellow-Canadian Trudeau said: "A democracy is judged by the way the majority treats the minority". And shall we even begin to discuss how the Arab + Palestinian citizens are treated within the occupied territories?...

Friendly Reminder

Whether you're pent up in a room studying, celebrating the start of March break, or celebrating your own Hump Day 'cause Wednesday is too inconvenient,

be safe

and

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND!!

- <3 C.E

The CHRONICles: I can't take back the words if they're said

You ever wish you could do something right?
Like life is laughing at you out of spite.
Every corner you turn,
You hit a  d e a d  end.
Keeping your enemies close,
You lose all your friends.


Relationships aren't getting any clearer,
I can't face the person in the mirror.
Can't distinguish between comfort and pain,
Try to look for sunshine
Only thing visible is rain.
My sins start outweighing every good deed,
Its like the rose that grew from concrete
Is still an unblossomed seed...


But how do I begin to grow?
When a million seductive voices
Are calling me from below.
Echoing, screaming all my pride and sin
Apathy mixed with doubt bursting from within


Why's everything I touch seem to waste away?
Everytime I demolish a wall
It wont stay that way.
Can't figure out who I'm going to be
And when I see my dreams getting closer,
Thats when they always seem to flee...
From me.


 Is this just self-pity from a disillusioned mind?
Or is there a TRUTH I'm looking to find?
If writing's the escape and the pen TRIUMPHS the sword
And every idea is immortal,
And salvation is in the almighty word,
Then how come we all linger
On the brink of self-defeat?
Threatening to implode from our self generated heat...




If every soul has its mate,
And to every night there is a day,
Then where do the broken souls go
To find their own fate?

c.e.