I have been enjoying Twitter for the past year. T...
The Armenian Genocide
France's Parliament passed...
Dictators and parasite hardly leave. Great minds ...
And so it happens that today I started my...
گندابِ فرهنگ و فرهنگِ گنداب
میروسلاو هولوب، شاعر ...
Camp Ashraf residents are Protected Persons under ...
The speech attributed to Taeb is only published i...
Call for no fly zone in Libya.
"Hamid Dabashi on BBC: Mirhossein Mousavi is Iran'...
Syria: Tal al-Molouhi, a 19 year old girl, sentenc...
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04/01/2012 - 05/01/2012
Tuesday, September 30, 2003
A song by Nurit Galron goes well with the Autumn, doesn't it?
Friday, September 26, 2003
Nuke Mullahs? Thanks but No Thanks!
A man is often judged for the way he treats his family. Governments are that father figure to the people. An oppressive regime such as one in the present Iran, as well as being a threat to the Iranians is a danger to other nations. It is obvious that there should not be Nuke Mullahs.
Searching and searching! Why can I not find a common ground with those in power? Why I do not understand the language they speak, the ideology they believe in and the life they live?
Wednesday, September 24, 2003
Tonight hubby is frustrated with everything including his favorite TV host Chris Matthews who literally turned his show Hardball into Arnold Schwarzenegger's campaign headquarters. He is fed up with iran-emrooz and similar sites that are full of irrelevant articles about Republic versus Monarchy written by people who apparently lack the slightest understanding about the extent of the tragedy that religious tyranny has brought upon Iran.
a few nights ago...
We (P, the baby and I) were driving to Barnes & Noble to check some books and I heard Salam Pax on the NPR.
P's hand goes to change the station.
Sheema: No, let us hear. It's Salam Pax's interview.
P: Who is Salam Pax?
Sheema: The Baghdad Bloger
P: That guy! Okay, sure let us hear what he says.
...after a while...
P: Why these radios don't interview Iranian bloggers? What was the name of that Journalist bloger? Wasn't it Sina? Why don't they interview Hussein Derakhshan or Sina Mottalebi? Or you?
Between the baby's constant request to sing her Barney's song and P talking about the Iranian students in the prisions of the oppressive regime, I only heard something like: I will not leave Iraq. It is a historic time and I don't want to miss it (...You can hear his interview on the Fresh Air and here is G's blog. Last May, I let my readers know that Salam Pax was back on line...so he already is part of the zaneirani-readers-family...)
Last night I put the little girl in her bed and went to open the window...and as hours passed the images waltzed their way into the "Good Night Baby Girl".
Good Night Baby Girl
I open the window
so that she can hear the sound of the night,
so that she can smell the fresh scent,
and when the rain starts
she will hear her mama again
walking quietly as a breeze of air
to cover her from the cool of the storm.
Watch her gently as she stirs slightly,
amazed by the face, so small
and innocent, that reflects the generations
back through untold time, that moves
toward a future shaped and molded
by who we are, by from where we came,
by the question mark of where we are today.
Notice the little hand
that clutches the blanket, so perfectly
formed, sculpted by love and
the grace of God, the hand which someday
perhaps will cover with a blanket
her own baby girl and remember the moments
when she was young and knew
even in her sleep that mama was there.
Reach down and the fingers so tiny,
so fragile yet so strong in their quiet slumbered love
unconsciously wrap around mine
and transmit pulse through my body,
circling, snaking, dancing through me
with a warmth that runs from my heart
to my womb, and reminds me of the bond
that will connect us as long as she lives.
Tip-toe from her room and return to mine,
slip between the blankets lest I rouse him
from his rest, although I wouldn't mind,
for at this moment it would be wonderful
to disappear into a small nested universe
where twined beneath the lullaby of the rain
we would remember the miracle
from which she came.
Sheema Kalbasi & Roger Humes
...these are a few more blogs I check on from time to time:
i have a headache , not a fish , CYBER ARCHITECT , ReachM High, Persian Students in the United Kingdom, iraniantruth, cyberwriter, polskipers and matthias klein.
Thursday, September 18, 2003
Iran: An Unfit Mother
Iranian Children do not have rights. The 9-year-old Narges is the latest victim I know of. She is been physically abused and injured by a family member. If you know of/are an attorneyNarges may be a/the case for you. She is one of many abused children in Iran.
Wednesday, September 17, 2003
My little girl has learned a) to clean up after eating and b) hand me her dishes & cups.
Tuesday, September 16, 2003
ANN COULTER is one of the least intellectuals when it comes to the issues related to Iran and the Middle East...
Thursday, September 11, 2003
The gray bird does not sit
on the tall dry tree,
the red fox is gone,
the bulimic night will soon
give way to the dawn.
Within the ebon eclipse of these hours
I shall fast for the green days,
and in the deep darkness of my soul
the lamp will shine bright
and the mirror reflect back a world
where no one hates me
for the brown beauty of my life.
Sheema Kalbasi & Roger Humes
...Ground Zero and Today on the Day 9/11...
Wednesday, September 10, 2003
Sad things are happening around the world.
P: Is this the type of wisdom you want our child to have/learn from?
Sheema: Is it really what I want her to remember me by? Is it how I want her to treat her surrounding? Is there a right way to live?
What is it to you if I am a Jew, a Muslim, a Shinto, a Christian, or a Hindu? What is it to you if I am an Iranian, an Arab or a Mongol... a homosexual, a transsexual or a hetero�What is to you where I am from�or what faith I have�for I am a Human first and� last.
I cannot walk
My nerves have failed my knees
Doctors say: She is scared
I cannot write, my hands are short
my soul dried up
not one word
no poetry for me
I am too black to write
Born on the wrong side of the world
My eyes are too dark to see
Once I wrote about the roses,
Now the joy is lost
I do not speak
My accent is too bruised
Not one word, one word to say; to write
I do not go (out)
Baby in my womb vomits in anger
I do not want sex
I do not want food; I do not leave the four-walled room
I am tired
I do not want to hear, see, or read
I want to have the bluest eyes
I want to have the blondest hair
I want to have the tallest legs (to show off by the sea?)
Does it sound American enough?
I want to know why when those bluest eyes,
blondest hair, bombed Oklahoma,
racial profiling was not in the news!
God please let it not be Iranians,
Let it not be Middle Eastern, let it not be!
Please God let it not be those who look like my brothers
Do Not you go today!
My brother sits at home all day long, all night long!
No poetry for me
The sounds of spring,
Covering the ears!
Lives lost in the ashes
I will change my very being
I will ask god to give me blond hair
I will ask god to give me blue eyes
I will ask god to let me
I will ask god to let me
I will ask god to let me...
Today I heard
Today I heard
Today I learned
Today I learned a new word: Hijackers
Today I learned: my hopes are dried
Today I know about not being born in the right part of the world
I am not an Arab
I keep telling them
Well what is the difference?
You are a Muslim!
I am not a Muslim
Well what is the difference?
No, not even you know the
Sikhs, Hindus and Jews.
more than ever, there is no difference.
September 2001, USA
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Today on Hossein Derakhshan's blog I came across a familiar name. Nazila Fathi, a reporter for NY times. It's Nazila's sister Golnaz whom I recall most. We went to the same school. Today Golnaz is an amazing painter and has mastered in the art of calligraphy.
Monday, September 08, 2003
...Sheema (on the phone with Maman): I have been painting the baby�s room these past three days...
Maman: A healthy woman is a healthy every thing else (mother/wife/lover/daughter/sister/etc.). Make sure you don�t exhaust yourself over painting a room.
P (checks the room): It looks great� but may be you should have had read a guidebook to �how to be a good painter�!
Mother-in-law (she is visiting us from another state): The room looks good�even when the lights aren�t on.
The baby: walks in�looks around�wants to touch and taste the new lemon color.
My thoughts while painting the room: Why every thing with the Iranians and the government/s is a conspiracy?
Zananeh (Feminine) is back from Africa and her recent writings are as cool and fresh as a summer breeze.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
Move through the past,
through the legends, beyond the history,
through the poetry, through the old stories,
beyond the gates of Sheba, beyond
Solomon and the fabled talking bird
to where I hear your voice,
distant, far across the Sea of Despair,
pleading with the Gods and the Fates:
I am searching and searching to find
constant reminders of-to where do I belong . . .
I listen quietly although I can never truly know
the depths of these passions that drive you
along the paths of quiet desperation.
My exiles are those of my own choosing.
Why do I not understand the language they speak,
the ideology they believe, and the life they live?
Their belief is covered with thick black ice
and I'm a tiny little one, melting away . . .
There is a distant stream that flows from the mountains,
through the uncharted wilderness, and grows in strength
and power as it moves homeward to the sea. Along the way
it encounters the stone cruelty of the rocks that in the end
ebb in defeat over generations to the inevitability of the water.
They have enslaved me
with the direct connection to their God/s,
with the enslavement of my dreams,
with the exile of my hope.
And they make me feel ugly to my bones . . .
The rose stands alone cold in the garden before
the withering frost. It must be patient and await
the gentle fingers of spring where true beauty lies
when it blossoms burst forth in a splendor that cannot be denied.
To them I am a whore
walking on the streets of my life,
condemned to the Babylon of their wrath . . .
Within you lies the true strength of woman,
the ability to create, the ability to nurture,
the ability to withstand the torrents of oppression,
for you think in generations and not in moments.
Within your words are the sky and the wind
and the mountains and the trees and the dreams
where others will realize that such hatred
can only consume if one allows it to do so.
That is why they fear you.
They have their Iran,
I have mine . . .
Sheema Kalbasi and Roger Humes
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
I Do Not Think
I do not think about the deaths in Iraq,
I do not think about the anguish in the Levantine,
I do not think about the persecutions in Iran,
I do not think about the grays and the blacks.
All I think about is when you awaken to the day
with the happy smile of childhood
that is reserved just for me
only to find I am not there.
What betrayal shall touch your heart
when you discover that mama is back to school?
I will miss you today, my angel,
tomorrow, and every day
that I will be spending with the books
and not covered with your laughter and hugs
which give my heart its reason to beat.
I want to cover you
in my butterfly kisses but . . .
You are asleep . . .
Sheema Kalbasi & Roger Humes