While you let your “inner black woman” out and start rolling your neck and ‘mhmm’-ing everything allow me to let out my inner lapd officer and beat the shit out of you.
It’s funny to see how white foreigners will write you off as just “another Egyptian” until they hear your unaccented English…then you become the most interesting specimen to them, something that doesn’t fit in their discriminative binary.
Or the white foreigners who complain so much about this country, but don’t want to leave because their husbands work for rich oil companies.
If you’re racist and you know it, please leave my country, habaybi.
steps over her
puts on a suit
she stabbed herself.” —
the short knife, nayyirah waheed
in response to president obamas address on africa:
“I think part of what’s hampered advancement in Africa is that for many years we’ve made excuses about corruption or poor governance, that this was somehow the consequence of neo-colonialism, or the West has been oppressive, or racism – I’m not a big – I’m not a believer in excuses.
“The West and the United States has not been responsible for what’s happened to Zimbabwe’s economy over the last 15 or 20 years.”
i am heartbroken.
ان اعلم صغيرتي ان الدين هو اخلاق وأدب وتهذيب
وامانة وصدق، قبل ان اعلمها بأي قدم تدخل الحمام وبأي يد تأكل؟” —
An Excerpt from Nizar Qabbani’s Would You Permit Me
Would you permit me
to teach my little one that religion is about good manners, good behaviour, good conduct, honesty and truthfulness, before I teach her with which foot to enter the bathroom or with which hand she should eat?
am writing to you
already falsifies what I
wanted to tell you.
how to explain to you that I
don’t belong to English
though I belong nowhere else” —Gustavo Perez Firmat, Bilingual Blues: Poems, 1981-1994 (x)
And pull its ears,
Till tears of joy come to its eyes.
Another cold winter, penetrated by airplanes
And soldiers sitting on the edge of a hillock,
Waiting for history
To rise up from the darkness of the marshes
With a gun in its hand,
To shoot angels
Training for the revolution.
Every night I put my hand on this country,
It slips away from my fingers,
Like a soldier running from the front.” —The Last Iraq by Fadhil al-Azzawi (via frombaghdadwithlove)
three little black boys
lying in a grave yard
i couldn’t tell
if they were playing
or practicing.” —baba lukata, rehearsal. (via theblacksophisticate)