The truth is eternal but our connection to it isn’t

Note: this is an honest intellectual examination of Jesus from the angle of a significant prophet in Islaam and a recurrent character in the Qur’aan, as well as his mother who has an entire chapter devoted to her ( surah Maryam). It’s not an attack or belittlement of Christians. Rather, it’s a retracing of the steps treaded by some of the worst of humans in history to claim Christendom and how ego corrupts the truth.

If you believe god died for your sins, do you expect others to center your existence in that way? If you believe that the worst of atrocities are written off by allegiance, do you see others outside your group as subhuman? The same people who persecuted Jesus are the ones who turned his message around and shopped it around to the European establishment, paying homage to the anthropomorphism of the Greeks. Though I unequivocally don’t believe Jesus was crucified but ascended, I believe his message was crucified and made into a caricature by centering the human existence, the ego, and not the divine.

Anthropocentrism (the belief that human beings are the most significant entity of the universe) is just a stone cast away from white supremacy, once you establish that only whites are humans.

Impair the imperialist

We do not know the size and strength of our own manias until they fall upon us and drag us down, or the barrenness of our inner deserts until real loneliness, fear, bewilderment and sun-madness have cast us into them. There is something huge and dark in the African world which can chew through the defences of white men who have not been harnessed to that continent’s almost mindless friendship with suffering and annihilation. Concrete buildings, clinics and city settlements can hide it, almost, but out in the wastes you never forget that the friendly hyena is there to clean you if you should die in the grey grass among the thorns. It is truly a mighty continent and you feel it when you lie down in darkness under the stars, your blanket around you, and you listen to its powerful silence, a silence made up of various small sounds become one steady background drone and clicking, of cicadas, insects of every kind, mosquitoes, all whirring and hissing in one silence peculiar to Africa.

Of all the desiccated, bitter, cruel, sunbeaten wildernesses which starve and thirst beyond the edges of Africa’s luscious, jungled centre, there cannot be one more Christless than the one which begins at the northern foot of Mount Kenya and stretches to the foothills of Abyssinia, and from there to the dried-out glittering tip of Cape Gardafui where the hot karif winds blow in from where the long sharks race under the thin blue skin of the ocean. You can never think of those wildernesses without thinking of daggers and spears, rolling fierce eyes under mops of dusty black crinkly hair, of mad stubborn camels, rocks too hot to touch, and blood feuds whose origins cannot be remembered, only honoured in the stabbing. But of all the races of Africa there cannot be one better to live among than the most difficult, the proudest, the bravest, the vainest, the most merciless, the friendliest; the Somalis.

I knew an Italian priest who had spent over thirty years among the Somalis, and he made two converts, and it amazed me that he got even those two. The Prophet has no more fervent, and ignorant, followers, but it is not their fault that they are ignorant. Their natural intelligence is second to none and when the education factories start work among them they should surprise Africa, and themselves.

I never saw a Somali who showed any fear of death, which, impressive though it sounds, carries within it the chill of pitilessness and ferocity as well. If you have no fear of death you have none for anybody else’s death either, but that fearlessness has always been essential to the Somalis who have had to try and survive hunger, disease and thirst while prepared to fight and die against their enemies, their fellow Somalis for pleasure in the blood feud, or the Ethiopians who would like to rule them, or the white men who got in the way for a while. ¹

Wandering in the Shag were Somalis with some of the sharpest intelligences in the continent, nomads who had been forced into being parasites of the camel, for centuries, and could anyone ever find a way of using all that courage and intelligence? This unique people, with their great vanity, and their touching bravery in the way in which they try and cope with their difficult life, have no palm oil, no cocoa, no coffee, gold, no diamonds to sell, only their camels. ²

The Somalis bitterly resent the white man, and struggle continually, and admirably, by lies and intrigue, to fight off his influence which spells the end of their peculiar world. You cannot beat them. They have no inferiority complexes, no wide-eyed worship of the white man’s ways, and no fear of him, of his guns or of his official anger. They are a race to be admired, if hard to love. ³

There is no one alive as tough as the Somali nomad. No one.
An askari wounded in a fight in the Haud country walked fourteen miles holding his guts in his hand, was sewn up and lived to soldier again. And the women are as spiritually strong as their men. ⁴

Hanley, Gerald. Warriors : Life and Death Among the Somalis. Eland , 1993. [Scribd version]

¹ pgs.29-31
² pg.73
³ pg.153

is religion antiquated?

When people denounce religion in a reductivist way as to imply that modernity should make us all transcend such baseness, it makes me fear for humanity. Those who say this are usually white people in industrialized nations, where they are so far removed from the raw human condition that dwells in the cracks of suffering like poverty like death of children like rampant spread of crippling diseases, that they’ve forgotten their insignificant place in this universe.

Religion is ingrained in the subconscious as an archetype – it’s shaped the paths we’ve crossed as a collective from time immemorial. When you look down on it, you have put yourself at the centre of the universe. You’ve erased your human limits and imperfections because modern conveniences insulates you from feeling the powerlessness this man felt.

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PewDiePie though not my cup of tea, seems like a genuinely good person. He has a very wholesome vibe about him. But the recent debacle about his controversial antisemitic joke spread through the media like wildfire, courtesy of Wall Street Journal’s framing him as a decided anti-Semitic nazi-sympathizer.

To those who don’t know PewDiePie’s humour and context of his videos could very well come away with the conviction that he’s absolute scum. Context matters. 

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the civil barbarians

Until the lion learns to write, every story will glorify the hunter


For centuries, the White man was the hunter. He sailed across oceans in search of prey, he conned and swindled his way to the top. He dazzled with the bonfire, and then he burnt the lands to ashes. He decimated forests, massacred millions, divided up continents with the simple flick of a pen and a ruler. He mastered the art of deception through capitalism. A magician, the power of his tricks relied on what the audience did not see and did not understand. He was a master strategist who would do all the above without leaving a trace behind.

But now, the curtain is gone. People are privy to the techniques and tricks. The annals of this hunter is engraved in the scar tissue of the decimated forests, on the headstones of mass graves, at the borders of colonized countries. Oppression, ironically, released the people. The internet taught them the language of the hunter. Social networking gave the sheets over to the lions.

And now, the hunter is aghast. The roars are not simply noise anymore. The ground has been leveled, the curtains drawn, the darkness banished. The hunter tries to weasel his way out of the incomprehensible violence and manipulation, he tries to reason that it’s unfortunate human nature. He tries to equate the lion’s hunt for food with his hunt for extravagance. He tries to deflect blame by pointing to what others have done to destroy the earth and its inhabitants.

No amount of gunpowder can mask the stench of the blood of millions, and no smoke and mirrors can mask the soul from God.

Bottom of the Barrel

​Although we fall through the stereotypical cracks, BLACK MUSLIM (hijabi) WOMEN are going to get the most backlash from not only a racist America, but the racist West as a whole. Brexit and Trump’s presidency has revealed the true colours of the white supremacist West. 
We are visual representations of everything Trump and his supporters hate. They don’t need to see our immigrant status or hear an accent or ask about our sexuality to hate us. I’m not saying that for oppression Olympics, but WE ARE MOVING TARGETS

 We are going to be the most vulnerable and affected, please don’t brush us over. 
When people think of BLACK they think of MEN

When people think of MUSLIM they think of ARAB

When people think of WOMEN they think of WHITE
Be extra supportive and protective of visibly Black Muslim Women. We’re VERY scared. 
We’re scared of getting strangled with our hijabs.

We’re scared of being thrown on the train tracks in the subways.

We’re scared of being stabbed.

We’re scared of crossing the road for fear of being run over.

We’re scared of being verbally abused in public and no one standing up for us.

We’re scared of having acid or hot water thrown in our face.

We’re scared of being kicked or spat at.

We’re scared of being harassed and patronized by white feminists for covering.

We’re scared of being humiliated and bullied in the workplaces.

We are scared that our pain will go by unnoticed, not even meriting a blip on the radar.
This isn’t an exaggeration. This isn’t a hyperbole. This is the reality every Muslim girl, especially black Muslims are waking up to in the West.

America – Home of the White, Land of the Wealthy 

I just finished watching Ava DuVernay’s documentary 13th and I had goosebumps and cold chills running down my spine from start till finish. I cried. I cried seeing all these black people systematically treated as subhumans. I cried when I saw a snippet of an interview with Kalief Browder who was held in Riker’s Island for 3 years – 2 of which were in solitary confinement for a petty crime he didn’t even commit. Two years after he was released he committed suicide, in June 2015. His mother died today of heartbreak – literally. 
It’s abominable. And I urge white people to look at their history that informs their privileged present time. I urge them to not shirk away by absolving themselves of what their relatives, grandfathers, workmates perpetuate. Injustice might start isolated, but it always spreads, like cancer.

Here’s an excerpt from the film, and I urge you to make it a point to watch it and let it ripple through you. Let it sink in. Sit with the uncomfortable truth. Our world is marred with violence and oppression because of silent bystanders who didn’t want to feel and face the cold reality.

 Police violence – that isn’t the problem in and of itself. It’s a reflection of a much larger, brutal system. [One] of racial and social control known as mass incarceration which authorizers this kind of police violence.

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