في بلادي نأكل لنعيش
ونعيش لنبحث عن الاكل
وتهدر كرامتنا ويباع شرفنا
وتلغى عنا صفة الانسانية
فقط من اجل رغيف الخبز
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Why He loves Madrid ?
not by me, it's an article that someone wrote and was loved by me.
Thursday, July 01, 2004especially from my mother, i get questions about why i love madrid so much, why i want to live here. here is an example. it is not yet 630pm, the sun has slipped over to the other side of the plaza finally leaving me in some shade, still hot but not searing. down on the corner below in front of the african shop�they sell statues, drums, leather bags, faux sports gear, cell phone stuff, pens, envelopes, plastic watches�five drummers in african dress have gathered. they have bongos and are beating them in rhythm. it shakes the sunstilted plaza. a woman in a long white and pale blue dress, skin blacker than night against its brilliance, dances in wild spasms, barefoot on the filthy sidewalk. a male dancer, red ribbons streaming from his wrists, more tied in his hair, joins her. their knees lunge up forming giant right angles with their legs, first one then the other. arms spinning. head bent forward, then flung back. hands outstretched. feet a blur of movement. an extension of the music. they dance two songs while a guy with a camera films them. a crowd forms. typical lavapies bohemia. white guys with dreads. girls in long knit skirts to the ground, brightly colored leather cords knit in their hair. some africans bopping to the beat. guys with shaved heads and big dogs. a few teenaged morrocan boys, smoking cigarettes and nudging each other in secrets. a man with a pushcart, his delivery guy shirt untucked in front, dirty. and in between them all, a few of lavapies original residents. old women and men, grayed over, white hair splayed about from the heat, shuffling slow in wellworn shoes. quizzical looks on their faces as they watch. i see an old woman dressed in burgundy, holding a tiny white fur of a dog close to her, smiling. another, a man in a blue and green striped polo, was sitting on a bench respiting from the sun when the whole scene unfolded before him. what does he think, that man who no doubt lived through the civil war, and franco and franco�s fall and socialism and telepizza and late night porn on public television and chinese stores open on sundays? what does he think of lavapies�s newest residents dancing their culture right here in the old barrio of lavapies? his face hasn�t changed. even as applause explodes around him drowing out the drills that are tearing up the old metro. i like to think it makes him glad, watching the world twist and turn and change again. watching people celebrating their lives through music and dance the way people have done in all parts of this world since the beginning of time. even as wars rage on and ideologies are fought for in blood and death. we keep dancing on. i know it made me smile, drew tears to my eyes, as i watched from my balcony, happy to be part of this crazy motley madrid.
Thursday, July 01, 2004especially from my mother, i get questions about why i love madrid so much, why i want to live here. here is an example. it is not yet 630pm, the sun has slipped over to the other side of the plaza finally leaving me in some shade, still hot but not searing. down on the corner below in front of the african shop�they sell statues, drums, leather bags, faux sports gear, cell phone stuff, pens, envelopes, plastic watches�five drummers in african dress have gathered. they have bongos and are beating them in rhythm. it shakes the sunstilted plaza. a woman in a long white and pale blue dress, skin blacker than night against its brilliance, dances in wild spasms, barefoot on the filthy sidewalk. a male dancer, red ribbons streaming from his wrists, more tied in his hair, joins her. their knees lunge up forming giant right angles with their legs, first one then the other. arms spinning. head bent forward, then flung back. hands outstretched. feet a blur of movement. an extension of the music. they dance two songs while a guy with a camera films them. a crowd forms. typical lavapies bohemia. white guys with dreads. girls in long knit skirts to the ground, brightly colored leather cords knit in their hair. some africans bopping to the beat. guys with shaved heads and big dogs. a few teenaged morrocan boys, smoking cigarettes and nudging each other in secrets. a man with a pushcart, his delivery guy shirt untucked in front, dirty. and in between them all, a few of lavapies original residents. old women and men, grayed over, white hair splayed about from the heat, shuffling slow in wellworn shoes. quizzical looks on their faces as they watch. i see an old woman dressed in burgundy, holding a tiny white fur of a dog close to her, smiling. another, a man in a blue and green striped polo, was sitting on a bench respiting from the sun when the whole scene unfolded before him. what does he think, that man who no doubt lived through the civil war, and franco and franco�s fall and socialism and telepizza and late night porn on public television and chinese stores open on sundays? what does he think of lavapies�s newest residents dancing their culture right here in the old barrio of lavapies? his face hasn�t changed. even as applause explodes around him drowing out the drills that are tearing up the old metro. i like to think it makes him glad, watching the world twist and turn and change again. watching people celebrating their lives through music and dance the way people have done in all parts of this world since the beginning of time. even as wars rage on and ideologies are fought for in blood and death. we keep dancing on. i know it made me smile, drew tears to my eyes, as i watched from my balcony, happy to be part of this crazy motley madrid.
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