“Jazz is my Jihad”

I used to be a writer.

Back in London, as an aspiring journalist who basically had no idea what I was doing, I arranged my first interview for a website which no longer exists. I was their art & culture correspondent, and now that I look back, Gilad Atzmon (an Israeli jazz musician) was an interesting choice considering I was writing for Arabia Online.

I have no idea now how I found out about him, but his pro-Palestinian views and my love for jazz music may have had something to do with it. I went to meet him at one of his performances at a jazz club in central London and found a man of great talent, and great power. An Israeli, who was once in the army, who woke up one day, looked around him and decided that Israel was no longer a place he could call home. I went to see him perform several times after that, and each time I was struck by the energy that rushes off of this musician in tsunami waves whilst he performs.

What was said during the interview was controversial to say the least, and although I edited out as much as I could, it still never got published.

The reason Gilad comes to mind now is of course the atrocities that are currently happening in Gaza as I write this, and on which I have failed to find the energy to comment on in this blog -not because I don’t care about the people who are losing their lives needlessly, but because I am truly sick of politics, violence and bloodshed - particularly in the Middle East.

I am sick of both sides of this bullshit feud, and to say I wish they would just live in peace sounds childish and naive to say the least.

I stopped watching the news long ago, but there is no escaping what is happening in Gaza. The fact that I have a child of my own, who I would want to protect from a simple breeze (like they say in Egypt) doesn’t make it any easier. I can’t even begin to imagine what parents are going through at this very moment, wondering whether their children will make it through this horror, and whether they themselves will survive to take care of them, and I don’t want to.

I want to tell you a true story.

Once upon a time, there was a pro-Palestinian demonstrator, just like the millions who are marching through cities all over the world today. To say she hated Israelis is to put it lightly.
She was also a girl looking for her father, just like the thousands who are searching for a lost parent all over the world today, and she found him. With him she found two brothers she never knew she had - and they were raised as orthodox Jews. They had both volunteered in the Israeli army and navy, only a week each, but still. They had lived on kibbutzes and celebrated Hanukkah, and eaten kosher. They were supposed to be her idea of a sworn enemy, yet the first time she laid eyes on them she fell in love.

That’s what life does to you, when you think you are better, or have more rights, or are special in some way. It smashes your well formulated opinions, beliefs and judgments in to the nearest wall.

And you become more human for it; more worth the life you have been given.

Watch Gilad perform here.
Visit his website here.
Watch Jazz is my Jihad here.

Lord of the Flies

She felt like she was living in Lord of the Flies, that book she studied as a schoolgirl, the story seemed so improbable then, fantasy. But now she knew that man was right, leave them to their own devices and they become cannibals. Humans that is. Why is it supposed to be human, to be good and giving and caring, why is that described as human? Why “Oh the humanity of it all”? What is humanity, but a bunch of raving mad animals? A species. It’s not just a single race that is worse or better than another, it doesn’t come down to the citizens of a certain country, although these people she lived amongst were a ripe example of what humans are really like, deep down. No, it was human nature. That is what she found so utterly disturbing. Why? That’s the question that poses itself, why create us this way? And we all know, there are some whys that can never be answered.

Hitting the traffic again, for the 1000th time in this single year since she began working on the other side of the city, the sprawling metropolis, she saw a sight that at once soothed her eyes and troubled her mind. A tall building with so many windows was reflecting the orange of the sunset, more of them towards the bottom of the building, so that it looked like the building was on fire with flames leaping from its windows. It was pretty, it was also very apt. Yes this city is on fire; yes these people are all just waiting to die.

A man drives past on the other side of the road, he’s on a motorbike, and sticking up off the back of his bike is a handwritten sign, help us it says, and underneath that in smaller Arabic script, oh leader, help us. That’s all she could read as the man sped past. She wondered what kind of help this man needed.

A couple cross the road, she stops so they can pass, they are young, and pretty, she is happy and smiling, he is serious and protective. What do they have to look forward to except each other? And even that goes AWOL after a while. Everything is so fucking temporary.

The call to prayer, she hears it and turns off the music, she drives in a bubble of music and AC and tries to keep the rotten air out as much as possible. She turns the radio station from iTrip to the Quran station, so she can really hear it; she wants to dissect the words. She wants to hear what that call is saying to her and the other millions who can also hear it at this very same moment. It says God is greater, greater than any of your worldly worries you stupid little human being, with all your cares. Didn’t I tell you this a million times before, look to God for help, to Him for guidance, to Him for peace. He is the only constant. The why rears its ugly head, why make us with so many bad sides? Why make us at all?

Will Never Say I have Seen it All Again

One day i'll tell the story of how i got my driving licence without resorting to corrupt measures.

Today i went to pick up my licence, and one of the people waiting with me to get his: was a man with a missing arm.