Words unsaid

It's amazing how much hands can express and evoke emotions. 

Bathe me in the saltiest of tears

Like most old coots, I sing along only to the songs of my youth, but when my nibling introduced me to this song, I am compelled to warble it.

I love bright pop-py songs with dark shades in their lyrics.

Are you sure the devils are all tied up?

Afghani food I tried in Bonn

I began fasting at seven years old, purely out of peer pressure. I had thought to start fasting at puberty, just like my Daddy. Alas and alack, I was shamed out of going to the canteen during Ramadan and thus, it was easier to just fast.

It was more challenging when my school was in afternoon session. The heat made you drowsy and the day seemed endless. When I took the schoolbus, it was worse because the evening congestion often meant that I reached home after Maghrib, by which time I was dehydrated and ravenous. Luckily for me, my Mum began driving when I was ten so I no longer had to deal with that.

For all my ignominious start to fasting, I have always enjoyed Ramadan. I rarely went back to sleep after sahur; I used to spend it playing computer games on our enormous home PC using the large floppy disks, or watch the one Disney cartoon that my Daddy bought on VHS, and as I grew older, just reading. 

Theoretically, fasting is only for those who are physically capable and is not an obligation for children, the old, and the infirm. It was only recently that my eyes are opened to other invisible infirmities when it comes to fasting. Mohani Niza wrote a lovely piece examining what Ramadan is like for those with debilitating conditions that are not always apparent.

I hate it that we police fasting in this country. Fasting is an obligation between the devotee and Allah; no one else is part of the equation. It is detestable that we have a criminal act under the syariah law that enforces respect for the month of Ramadan. How on earth does a month have feelings?! How is fining people and if they can't afford to pay, stuffing them in prison for not fasting Islamic? Not to mention that the ones who get punished are usually those from the lower socio-economic bracket; the lofty bangsawans get away scot free.

We need to go back to the core of fasting. Fasting is supposed to remind us of those who are less fortunate, and help us reflect on our spirituality when we stop feeding our body. It is supposed to give our bodies a rest from the usual abuses we heaped on ourselves and reprogramme how we manage our time. 

No one should be punished for not fasting, whatever their reasons may be. Let us take this time to reflect on the blessings that we have received to improve our thoughts, words, and deeds. Because some people's behaviour sure makes me think that the wrong devils are tied up during this month.

Ramadan Mubarak to those observing!

Adding insult to injury: impacts of the COVID-19 pandemic on women living under discriminatory Muslim family laws

The COVID-19 pandemic bodyslammed pretty much everyone on every continent, including the frozen wasteland of Antarctica. Women are disproportionately affected by the COVID-19 global seismic shift on all fronts; be it economic, health, safety, and general well-being. 

Musawah's study shows how Muslim women subject to discriminatory Muslim family law has to deal with greater stresses. Many conservative Muslims claim that Islam has been a boon for women; but it seems that this truism may be true in 7th century Arabia, but not the Muslim world in 21st century. 

Let's Love Everyone, and Let Allah Sort It Out

If you are born a Muslim in Malaysia, chances are you grew up being told that homosexuality is evil and gay people should be punished/killed/fixed. That indoctrination starts as early as seven years old and if you're lucky, stops when you are seventeen. 

Yup, I'm talking about the religious study classes that are mandatory for all Muslim children who attend government schools.

I was no different, and what's worse, I grew up in the 1980s at the height of the AIDS epidemic. I was a precocious reader, material-wise, and had begun devouring the broadsheet by the time I was nine years old. So imagine being told that the people of Lot is evil, and lo and behold! They are dying in the most terrible ways all over the world.

I went to an all-girls school so statistically speaking at least 1 out of 10 of my friends is gay. There was a transwoman in my parents' social circles; but everyone seemed to accept her as a woman although there may have been sniggers about whether a woman's wudhu is invalided after shaking hands with her.

As the majority, it behooves us to be aware of the lived experience of the minorities, which include those of the LGBTQIA community. Understanding can only create empathy and acceptance, unless you are a pathological sociopath. As said by Mahatma Gandhi, “A nation's greatness is measured by how it treats its weakest members.” 

Not for those who suffer from pollen allergy

Pine flower cake from scratch for those who are against processed food.

Decadence in times of trauma

Many are going through this pandemic with severe hunger of the skin variety. This video is a paean to a time that many long for; when we can reach out to embrace each other without paranoia or guilt of the non-cheating variety.

Stay safe, everyone.

Wash your hands.

Keep your distance.

Wear a damn mask when you are out and about.

Comfortable echo chamber

I'm listening to Jeff Buckley's Grace for the 8th or maybe 12th time today. For some reason, his eponymous hit never really hit my radar as a teen except for his cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah.

The chords of the opening trills are distinctive of songs written and produced in the 90's. His varying octaves flowed effortlessly as he sketched a tale of farewell. His enunciation leaves much to be desired, but there's no mistaking the visceral passion that passes on through the vibrating sound waves.

How magical it is that sound can still touch your soul even after the emanator is long dead and gone.

Grace's melody triggered reminiscence of my teenage years. It was a time when I lived comfortably inside my head, with no urges to spill my latest thoughts and ideas across social media. I never even had a proper diary. I sometimes wonder why I'm compulsively sharing ideas and information as I do now, when I once was quite happy keeping them all to myself.

My head is a comfortable echo chamber that filtered intense emotions through books and music. It is powerful protective mechanism; perhaps one of the reasons I have been accused of being dispassionate and untouched by base emotions. The echo chamber made distancing myself from things that can hurt me reflexive.

But this comfortable echo chamber has another side effect: it made me more empathetic.

It's hard to hold on a good grudge when you can pretty much put yourself in your antagonists' shoes and understand that their lashing out at you isn't personal but rather driven by feelings of rage, impotency and fear caused by someone or something else.

I'll still look on it as a blessing.

"Grace"
by Jeff Buckley

There's the moon asking to stay
Long enough for the clouds to fly me away
Well it's my time coming, I'm not afraid to die
My fading voice sings of love,
But she cries to the clicking of time
Of time

Wait in the fire...

And she weeps on my arm
Walking to the bright lights in sorrow
Oh drink a bit of wine we both might go tomorrow
Oh my love
And the rain is falling and i believe
My time has come
It reminds me of the pain
I might leave
Leave behind

Wait in the fire...

And I feel them drown my name
So easy to know and forget with this kiss
I'm not afraid to go but it goes so slow

First posted on Cowbird.

Just Love and Joy

A beautiful tribute by Brittany Howard to her Daddy.




If you still have your Daddy, please cherish him. Those like me can only count the minutes for our energies to reunite in love and joy one day.

I also like how the video showcased beauty in the mundane, joy in the ordinary, and a slice of black Southern life that isn't about drug, violence, or racism.

One more ear candy goodness from her for the road.

 

Sisyphean on a Titanic scale

“The only mode of attack is to deal with a heavy decrease in the production of plastics, as opposed to dealing with them after they’ve already been created,” she tells the group. “Your consumer behaviors do not matter. Not on the scale of the problem ... It’s the cessation of production that will make the big-scale changes.” 




*sigh*

Stolen from here.

Marked intimacy when killing your enemy

Long ago in Borneo, you can only tattoo your hands if you have successfully completed a ngayau (headhunting) expedition. You need to get up close and personal with your enemy, breathe in his last breath, and feel the sprinkle of his hot blood as you severed his head to take home before raising your phalanges to be inked.

Marked warrior(1)

More than just a trophy, the severed head is a talisman against evil to protect your longhouse and its occupants against enemies and disasters. The heads are placed at the highest points in the house, to have a vantage view of all within. And during feast days, the heads are brought down, cleansed and smoked in a ritual as old as mountains, accompanied by the chantings of wizened wise women.

Hands of a master weaver(2)

It takes a great deal more skill and power to kill your enemies with a bladed weapon. A will of steel to steady your hands when needed. A dying art of war immortalised in museums and books, little more than ink and paint on paper. The heart of the tribe is now transformed.

The West are better killers, of course. With their phosphorus bombs, high calibre projectiles, cluster munitions, and drones. Now they can kill aseptically from thousands of miles away, viewing death from high tech lenses, spewing bullets and explosives like a child with a PlayStation in the den. Never feeling the gut-wrenching fear of dealing with your enemies face to face, not caring of their names or faces, armed combatant or otherwise.

Nowadays, who earns their tattooed phalanges honestly? Are there still any?


Note: Cross-posted from my social media account.
(1) https://steemit.com/art/@allaboutarts/the-uniqueness-and-meaning-of-the-dayak-tattoos
(2) https://dayakwithgoldenhair.wordpress.com/2013/08/17/the-tattooed-man-is-the-perfect-and-sacred-man/

Tears Running Dry

As I type this entry, my nose is still blocked and my eyes are sore from what tantamount to 2 hour and change of weeping.

Thanks to Nagasaki: Memories of My Son (N:MMS).

It has been ages since I wept through out a film. The first film that ever made me cry was Story of a Mad Woman, a Taiwanese film that glorified insane sacrifices for love and filial piety. I was eight years old and it was the first time that a tale moved me to tears. Not easy for someone with 'hati kering' like me.

The Japanese are no slackers at crafting tearjerker melodrama and below is my reaction to this insanely evocative and sentimental post WW2 film.

Beware! Spoilers ahead!

Mars and Venus in one

Have you ever thought what it's like to live as the opposite gender? I occasionally dreamed I am a man; boy, those dreams were fun. There are no drawbacks to being stronger, taller than other people; no one complained when I dominated the conversation.

This is an interesting viewpoint of someone who has experienced living as both a man and a woman.


Welcome to being mansplained, Paula.

If This World is Wearing Thin and You're Thinking of Escape

Donald Trump's election into the White House felt surreal to me after 8 years of Obama administration. How or why he won, well, them's the break.

But truly, the only defense in the age of Trump is humour.



Post title came from the first line of this song.

Running

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Til your heart gives out
And your knees break apart
Like a child's toy at the end of childhood

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Out of the cage of hope and denial
Black blue flesh hidden under thick skin
Craving the kiss of misery

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Til the end of the round Earth
Ending up where you began
Writing secrets with your tears

Run, run, baby
Run, run
Breath has deserted you
Deflated lungs scrying your death
Essence of the stars returning home

What Lies Beneath

I liked watching beauty through the decades videos because it gives us a glimpse of how things once was like.

Of course those are limited to:
1. Western beauty ideals; and
2. Beauty ideals that were set by the wealthy (because they can afford it).

These videos underscore how no matter how much things change, some things remain the same. Women are expected to look a certain way (and suffer to get it if they didn't win the genetics lottery) to be considered beautiful. The beauty standards are often arbitrary and fickle; thick eyebrows one decade, pencil thin the next.

Here is another such video with an interesting twist. (Stolen from here)


It's a good refresher. Women are forever being erased from the history books as though half of the world's population have no historical value or did anything interesting enough to be noted. It is important to remind ourselves that women are not just vainpots primping in front of the mirror; they move the world as well.

Going Viral

How does a word that used to denote disease now becomes the buzzword of communication tech? People in marketing are now always on the look out for ways to make their campaign reach the widest possible audience, and today the most visible marketing currency is video.

Watch Sarah Wood, COO of Unruly Media, explain what it takes to make a marketing video go viral; it's a little chilling how what you think is an organic online interaction really is orchestrated by algorithms crunched by unseen people a world away.

*video is stolen from Wired.

Haunted by Sea Maidens

This song is used as part of the spiritual healing ritual based on the tale of the fisherman who lost his heart to the sea princess. Traditionally this was used for treating what now would be called post traumatic stress disorder; to revive the spirits of someone who has had a traumatic experience.

In other words, traditional Malay medicine use music and song and dance to heal psychological illness. Pretty progressive, don'tcha think?



Enjoy.

Breaking Up is Easier than Breaking a Habit

Every new year (be it the Islamic or Gregorian calendar), I'd tell myself to cut my electronic umbilical cord AKA the smartphone.

Or at least, put it far enough away from me during off times so I'd be more productive -- write more, make inroads in my avalanching to-be-read pile, finish embroidering my kebaya ...

Alas, I still fail. I'd manage maybe 2 or 3 days, and then I fall off the wagon again. The phone is also where I keep track of my email - work and personal - so even when silenced, I still reach for it every so often.

Watching this is pretty sobering, I must say.



Freakin' scary.  Especially since I'm in the middle of reading Nicholas Carr's The Shallows: What the Internet is Doing to Our Brain.

I can feel my brain being rewired.

Frankly, I have no idea how I'm going to wean myself off of the phone. I am a reading junkie; my phone plays a HUGE role in feeding my habit. I use it for reading my e-books and it's where I keep my Kobo account. Heck, I'm reading Carr's book on my smart phone, small screen notwithstanding.

It's ever harder to put the device far away when so much of our social interactions - be it family or friends or professional relationships - is controlled by that rectangle of silicon and circuits.

By making itself indispensable, the smart phone controls our lives beyond what we should be comfortable with. With the Internet of Things, one day we may not even have to carry the smart phone anymore; it may be grafted under our skin, with retinal implant to display the screen. Forget being afraid of Big Brother's surveillance; we already take Big Brother everywhere we go on purpose and eagerly.

If you wanna know more, read this and let me know if it made your hair raise as it did mine.

Dressed to Kill

You can never dress alone ...



... if your clothes are this complicated.

This sort of fashion was probably the reason why very few European ladies follow their husbands when they go pillaging in the tropics in the 18th century. The suffering when your scapula began to itch; how on earth do you reach that annoying spot?

I don't imagine the garment is terribly comfortable; the boning of the corset looks like sheer torture. Keeping the spine erect is one thing, but the squashing of boobies is another.

Thank God this style is no longer in fashion, no? Although those pockets are really kind of sweet.

*stolen from theLiverpool Museum blog.