Look Into My Eyes

Free Palestine

Free Palestine

 

Look Into My Eyes is a poem written by Gihad Ali, a Palestinian-American, and had been adapted into a song by the Danish hip-hop/r&b trio Outlandish in 2005. The song is written in the point of view of a Palestinian teenager and meant to open the eyes of it’s American viewer to the plight of the Palestinian people. I pray this poem/song opens your eyes to the reality of the world in which we live and connect your heart with those who are suffering. Remember, we are all human at the end of the day and all share the same hopes and aspirations to live in peace.

God bless!

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DkwxMYiyd_M

 

Look Into My Eyes

 

Look into my eyes
Tell me what ya see
You dont see a damn thing
‘Cuz you cant relate to me

You blinded by our differences
My life makes no sense to you
Im the persecuted one
You the red, white and blue

Each day you wake in tranquility
No fears to cross your eyes
Each day I wake in gratitude
Thankin God, He let me rise

Ya worry bout your education
And the bills you have to pay
I worry bout my vulnerable life
And if Ill survive another day

Ya biggest fear is getting a ticket
As ya cruise your Cadillac
My fear is that the tank thats just left
Will turn around and come back

Yet do you know the truth of where ya money goes?
Do you let the media deceive your mind?
Is this a truth that nobody knows?
Has our world gone all blind

Yet do you know the truth of where ya money goes?
Do you let the media deceive your mind?
Is this a truth that nobody knows?
Some one tell me

Oh, lets not cry tonight
I promise you one day its through
Oh, oh, oh, my brothers
Oh, oh, oh, my sisters

Oh, shine a light for every soul
That aint with us no more
Oh, oh, oh, my brothers
Oh, oh, oh, my sisters

See, Ive known terror for quite some times
57 years, so cruel
Terror breathes the air I breathe
Its the check point on my way to school

Terror is the robbery of my land
And the torture of my mother
The imprisonment of my innocent father
The bullet in my baby brother

The bulldozers and the tanks
The gasses and the guns
The bombs that fall outside my door
All due to your funds

You blame me for defending myself
Against the ways of my enemies
Im terrorized in my own land
And Im the terrorist

Yet do you know the truth of where ya money goes?
Do you let the media deceive your mind?
Is this a truth that nobody knows?
Has our world gone all blind

Yet do you know the truth of where ya money goes?
Do you let the media deceive your mind?
Is this a truth that nobody knows?
Some one tell me

Oh, lets not cry tonight
I promise you one day its through
Oh, oh, oh, my brothers
Oh, oh, oh, my sisters

Oh, shine a light for every soul
That aint with us no more
Oh, oh, oh, my brothers
Oh, oh, oh, my sisters

American, do ya realize
That the taxes that you pay
Feed the forces that traumatize
My every living day

So if I wont be here tomorrow
Its written in my fate
May the future bring a brighter day
The end of our wait

Oh, lets not cry tonight
I promise you one day its through
Oh, oh, oh, my brothers
Oh, oh, oh, my sisters

Oh, shine a light for every soul
That aint with us no more
Oh, oh, oh, my brothers
Oh, oh, oh, my sisters

 
 
by Gihad Ali, Isam Bachiri, Waqas Ali,
and Lenny Martinez
July 19, 2014
 
Peace and Love!
 
 
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The Strangers

ghurabaa

 

The following is a melodic poem written by an anonymous man from Egypt a couple of decades back. Ghuraba, or The Strangers, is a term used by the Prophet Muhammad to describe those who follow the path of freedom. For who is more free than those who are strangers in society and bare allegiance or servitude to none but the One who had created them. 

 

THE STRANGERS

Strangers, Strangers, Strangers.

The Strangers bow their heads to none but God.

The Strangers have chosen this to be their creed.

If you ask about us, we care not about the Tyrants!

We are the soldiers of the Lord, and ours is a straight path.

 

Strangers, Strangers, Strangers.

We care not for chains; we shall continue on forever.

So let us struggle, fight, and battle anew!

The Strangers, this is how they are free in an enslaved world.

 

Strangers, Strangers, Strangers.

Do you remember a time when we had been happy?

In the book of the Lord, we recite morning and night.

 

Strangers, Strangers, Strangers.

The Strangers bow their heads to none but God.

The Strangers have chosen this to be their creed.

 

Glad tidings to the Strangers.

 

July 18, 2014

 

Fire – Ibn Arabi

 

heart

 

Fire

O Marvel! a garden amidst the flames.
My heart has become capable of every form:
it is a pasture for gazelles and a convent for Christian monks,
and a temple for idols and the pilgrim’s Ka’bah,
and the tables of the Torah and the book of the Qur’an.
I follow the religion of Love: whatever way Love’s camels take,
that is my religion and my faith.

 

by Ibn Arabi

12th century Spanish Muslim mystic and poet

Try Not to Cry

Palestine

Palestine

 

Try Not to Cry

You, you’re not aware
That we’re aware
Of your despair
Don’t show your tears
To your oppressor
Don’t show your tears

Try not to cry little one
You’re not alone
I’ll stand by you
Try not to cry little one
My heart is your stone
I’ll throw with you

‘Ayn Jalut where David slew Goliath
This very same place that we be at
Passing through the sands of times
This land’s been the victim of countless crimes
From Crusaders and Mongols
to the present aggression
Then the Franks, now even a crueller oppression
If these walls could speak,
imagine what would they say

For me in this path that I walk on
there’s only one way
Bullets may kill, bones may break
Still I throw stones like David before me and I say

You, you’re not aware
That we’re aware
Of your despair
Your nightmares will end
This I promise, I promise

Don’t cry, don’t lose faith
The one who made water come out of the sand
Is the one who quenches the thirst
And you who rise proud from between the stones
Have made oceans from this dust

I throw stones at my eyes
’cause for way too long they’ve been dry
Plus they see what they shouldn’t from oppressed babies to thighs
I throw stones at my tongue
’cause it should really keep its peace
I throw stones at my feet
’cause they stray and lead to defeat
A couple of big ones at my heart
’cause the thing is freezing cold
But my nafs is still alive
and kicking unstoppable and on a roll
I throw bricks at the devil so I’ll be sure to hit him
But first at the man in the mirror
so I can chase out the venom

Hmm, a little boy shot in the head
Just another kid sent out to get some bread
Not the first murder nor the last
Again and again a repetition of the past
Since the very first day same story
Young ones, old ones, some glory
How can it be, has the whole world turned blind?
Or is it just ’cause it’s only affecting my kind?!
If these walls could speak,
imagine what would they say
For me in this path that I walk on
there’s only one way
Bullets may kill, bones may break
Still I throw stones like David before me and I say

 

July 16, 2014

Lest We Forget …

Nuclear

Nuclear

 

Lest We Forget …

One day it will all crumble and we’ll be left to rot

under the rubble after the stone walls tumble down upon us.

Years of luxury will be replaced with years of agony

and surely, all we hold dear shall be lost.

Our homes, our cars, our fences, our accessories, our money,

and ultimately, our beloved will all wither away into the pages

of a history we are imminently doomed to repeat -

lest we forget.

But it is too late; we’ve already forgotten.

The early morning coffee runs,

the cafe brunches, the jog in the park, the memorable midnight strolls down the avenue, and all

the leisure we take for granted

will be gone, along with us.

The survivors can only wait to die,

and mayhap wish it upon themselves in place of the terror that grates whatever shred of

humanity left in them.

It be then and only then that they will real what they have sown;

but it will be too late.

Decades of neglect; generations of ignorant youth eagerly chasing empty dreams of success and bliss

whilst failing to open their eyes to the horror of their fellow man only a couple of oceans away

shall see with their own eyes and at the cost of their blood the evil wrought by the neglect.

Just as children are murdered in cold blood at the hands of the oppressors for no reason other

than being a burden to their devilish agenda, and as an act of subjugation, so too shall their

children, innocent, and in retrospect, more fortunate, die and face the darkness brought upon us.

They will be forced from their homes, have their wealth and assets frozen, and left good for dead.

The hypocrisy will come to an end and every man, woman, and child will finally lay to rest the age old question: are we free?

No. We are not free.

Not in this world nor in this life.

We may have once been free,

But we sold our freedom for comfort and safety.

It was a bad deal,

And now the time has come to pay the piper.

There will be no safety nor any comfort.

Only death could free us from oppression

and only death can deliver us from evil.

But for those who believe in the spirit of good and what it means to be a true man and woman,

death will not come easy.

It is to be vanguarded by destruction and devastation.

Evil will come to vanquish all that is good until there is not a seed of humanity left on this good earth.

The earth is good and deep inside his heart, though he thinks it not to be true, man is good.

And as certain as death is so too is it certain that a freeman dies standing.

Only slaves kneel; no man is worthy of being bowed to.

All men are equal.

We are born into this world by way of our mother’s womb and we all die;

Thereafter, being covered by the dirt of our graves where we are to laid to rot and become the fare of the underground.

We are but dust, ready to dry up and burn.

Life is but a short-lived enjoyment -

One we enjoy so much that we develop enough conceit to think for a moment who has a right to it.

All the years of ignorance and arrogance, wrongdoing and prejudice, and complacency and neglect will come falling down on us.

Our world will burn into oblivion, setting fire to the rain and leaving us with no other option but to burn.

So as we go about our lives, meandering through the chaos of the world we helped create,

Take a moment to stop and heed the whispers of the wind:

Yesterday we were born.

Tomorrow we shall die.

But today, we will live.

Let us not be amongst the lost who neglect the lessons of yesterday and do not seize the day.

For lest we forget,
tomorrow shall be the day of our reckoning.

 

by Mensur Gjonbalaj

July 13, 2014

What Will I Tell My Jewish Kids

Gaza

Gaza

 

What I Will Tell My Jewish Kids is a poem by Kevin Coval written about the Jewish community, conflicts within it, and family reflections; it’s about speaking truth to power, at the dinner table and in the world at large; it’s about the undeniable power of history and facts, the inspiration of resistance, and the promise of justice and reconciliation. Most of all, What I Will Tell My Jewish Kids is a dissident artistic vision, a love-song to both all of those who are Jewish, who refuse to equate Judaism and Zionism, who believe their people “have a long story. more than what is seen now”; and to those who resist against all odds, apartheid walls, checkpoints, and borders, their oppression in Palestine.

 

What Will I Tell My Jewish Kids

when i saw
an old woman
on all fours
in the ruins
of her home
looking under
floor tiles
for medicine
i did think
what would i say
if it were my grandmother

by Kevin Coval

Skenderberg; The Spanish Jew’s Tale of an Albanian Warrior

Skenderbeg monument in Krujë

Skenderbeg monument in Krujë

 

The following is a poem written by Longfellow on the legendary Albanian warrior Gjerg Kastrioti, known as Skenderbeg. Skenderbeg was a 15th century Albanian nobleman who had been taken hostage by the Ottoman sultan as a child and served in the Janissary Corps, an elite military unit of the Ottoman war machine. In 1443 he deserted the Turkish forces at the Battle of Nis (Serbia) while fighting a battle against the Hungarian Knights led by John Hunyadi. He, along with three-hundred of his men, fled to his stronghold in Kruja and led an Albanian resistance that quelled the country from Ottoman rule for over twenty years. Known for being a valiant warrior and military genius, he earned the name Skenderbeg, an Albanian and Turkish pseudonym for Alexander the Great.

To this day Skenderbeg is regarded as the national hero of the Albanian peoples and has been recognized by the world for his bravery and cunning.

 

Skenderberg; The Spanish Jew’s Tale of an Albanian Warrior

 

The battle is fought and won
By King Ladislaus, the Hun,
In fire of hell and death’s frost,
On the day of Pentecost.
And in rout before his path
From the field of battle red
Flee all that are not dead
Of the army of Amurath.

In the darkness of the night
Iskander, the pride and boast
Of that mighty Othman host,
With his routed Turks, takes flight
From the battle fought and lost
On the day of Pentecost;
Leaving behind him dead
The army of Amurath,
The vanguard as it led,
The rearguard as it fled,
Mown down in the bloody swath
Of the battle’s aftermath.

But he cared not for Hospodars,
Nor for Baron or Voivode,
As on through the night he rode
And gazed at the fateful stars,
That were shining overhead;
But smote his steed with his staff,
And smiled to himself, and said;
“This is the time to laugh.”

In the middle of the night,
In a halt of the hurrying flight,
There came a Scribe of the King
Wearing his signet ring,
And said in a voice severe:
“This is the first dark blot
On thy name, George Castriot!
Alas! why art thou here,
And the army of Amurath slain,
And left on the battle plain?”

And Iskander answered and said:
“They lie on the bloody sod
By the hoofs of horses trod;
But this was the decree
Of the watchers overhead;
For the war belongeth to God,
And in battle who are we,
Who are we, that shall withstand
The wind of his lifted hand?”

Then he bade them bind with chains
This man of books and brains;
And the Scribe said: “What misdeed
Have I done, that, without need,
Thou doest to me this thing?”
And Iskander answering
Said unto him: “Not one
Misdeed to me hast thou done;
But for fear that thou shouldst run
And hide thyself from me,
Have I done this unto thee.

“Now write me a writing, O Scribe,
And a blessing be on thy tribe!
A writing sealed with thy ring,
To King Amurath’s Pasha
In the city of Croia,
The city moated and walled,
That he surrender the same
In the name of my master, the King;
For what is writ in his name
Can never be recalled.”

And the Scribe bowed low in dread,
And unto Iskander said:
“Allah is great and just,
But we are as ashes and dust;
How shall I do this thing,
When I know that my guilty head
Will be forfeit to the King?”

Then swift as a shooting star
The curved and shining blade
Of Iskander’s scimetar
From its sheath, with jewels bright,
Shot, as he thundered: “Write!”
And the trembling Scribe obeyed,
And wrote in the fitful glare
Of the bivouac fire apart,
With the chill of the midnight air
On his forehead white and bare,
And the chill of death in his heart.

Then again Iskander cried:
“Now follow whither I ride,
For here thou must not stay.
Thou shalt be as my dearest friend,
And honors without end
Shall surround thee on every side,
And attend thee night and day.”
But the sullen Scribe replied
“Our pathways here divide;
Mine leadeth not thy way.”

And even as he spoke
Fell a sudden scimetar-stroke,
When no one else was near;
And the Scribe sank to the ground,
As a stone, pushed from the brink
Of a black pool, might sink
With a sob and disappear;
And no one saw the deed;
And in the stillness around
No sound was heard but the sound
Of the hoofs of Iskander’s steed,
As forward he sprang with a bound.

Then onward he rode and afar,
With scarce three hundred men,
Through river and forest and fen,
O’er the mountains of Argentar;
And his heart was merry within,
When he crossed the river Drin,
And saw in the gleam of the morn
The White Castle Ak-Hissar,
The city Croia called,
The city moated and walled,
The city where he was born,–
And above it the morning star.

Then his trumpeters in the van
On their silver bugles blew,
And in crowds about him ran
Albanian and Turkoman,
That the sound together drew.
And he feasted with his friends,
And when they were warm with wine,
He said: “O friends of mine,
Behold what fortune sends,
And what the fates design!
King Amurath commands
That my father’s wide domain,
This city and all its lands,
Shall be given to me again.”

Then to the Castle White
He rode in regal state,
And entered in at the gate
In all his arms bedight,
And gave to the Pasha
Who ruled in Croia
The writing of the King,
Sealed with his signet ring.
And the Pasha bowed his head,
And after a silence said:
“Allah is just and great!
I yield to the will divine,
The city and lands are thine;
Who shall contend with fate?”

Anon from the castle walls
The crescent banner falls,
And the crowd beholds instead,
Like a portent in the sky,
Iskander’s banner fly,
The Black Eagle with double head;
And a shout ascends on high,
For men’s souls are tired of the Turks,
And their wicked ways and works,
That have made of Ak-Hissar
A city of the plague;
And the loud, exultant cry
That echoes wide and far
Is: “Long live Scanderbeg!”

It was thus Iskander came
Once more unto his own;
And the tidings, like the flame
Of a conflagration blown
By the winds of summer, ran,
Till the land was in a blaze,
And the cities far and near,
Sayeth Ben Joshua Ben Meir,
In his Book of the Words of the Days,
“Were taken as a man
Would take the tip of his ear.”

 

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow